•  .-  .'.IK* 


OT  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GAYWORTHYS 


of 


BY 

MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY 

AUTHOR  OF  "  FAITH  GARTNEY'S  GIRLHOOD,"  BIC, 


NEW  YORK 
HURST    &    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


A.  D.T.WHITNEY  SERIES 

UNIFORM    WITH    THIS    VOLUME 

By  MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY 

Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood. 

Gayworthy. 
A  Summer  in  Leslie  Goldthwaite's  Life. 

Price,  postpaid,   $oc.    each,    or  the  set 
for  $1.25 

HURST  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


PREFATORY. 


OF  threads  and  thrums :  because  a  simple  story  of  this 
mixed  divine  and  human  weaving  we  call  Life  ;  wherein  are 
threads, — lines  lying  evenly  along  the  loom,  and  made  secure 
and  perfect  with  a  filling ;  wherein  are  also  many  thrums, — 
ends  broken,  or  dropped  midway,  or  reaching  out  unfinished 
lengths  beyond  the  web.  Wherein  the  fabric  seems,  so 
often,  faulty ;  where  much  seems  lost,  left  out,  or  wrongly 
joined ;  where  correspondence  is  delayed,  and  full-matched 
beauty  missed ;  where  colors  are  confused ;  where  the  pat- 
tern, being  vast,  may  never  quite  unroll  to  earthly  vision ; 
where  Patience  keeps  her  foot  upon  the  treadle,  and  Faith 
must  stand,  with  fervent  eyes,  beside  the  springing  shuttle, 
knowing  of  breadths  that  shall  be  woven  by  and  by  1 


2133741 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Dr.  Gayworthy's  Women  Folks 7 

II.  Down  among  the  Company 18 

III.  Peekin'  and  Harkin' 26 

IV.  Stacy  Lawton's  Walk  Home 38 

V.  The  Secret  at  the  Hartshornes ,  41 

VI.  The  Dairy  Farm 48 

VII.  Watching  and  Waiting 63 

VIII.  Eben's  Coup-d'Etat 67 

IX.  "Gabriel!" , 73 

X.  Another  Week 79 

XI.  Mrs.  Gair  writes  Home 83 

XII.  ThePearl 89 

XIII.  Proverbs 100 

XIV.  The  Expectant  System 104 

XV.  A  Search  ;  and  Odyllic  Force 113 

XVI.  Into  Port Ji8 

XVII.  Coming! 133 

XVIII.  Biddy  Flynn  and  her  Neighbors 141 

XIX.  The  Silent  Sin 146 

XX.  Guilty,  or  Not  Guilty  ? 157 

XXI.  The  Rough  off 170 

XXII.  Mixed  News  from  Home 174 

XXIII.  Music  Between  the  Acts , 181 

XXIV.  Then  and  Now 201 

XXV.  Brown  Bread. 207 


6  Contents. 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XXVI.  Up  Boar-Back 212 

XXVII.  Over  East  Spur 225 

XXVIII.  Sunday 242 

XXIX.  Life's  Word 249 

XXX.  Drifting  Apart 258 

XXXI.  A  Birthday ;  and  What  it  Brought 262 

XXXII.  The  Scarlet  Oak 268 

XXXIII.  Views  ;  Across  and  Back 275 

XXXIV.  Opposite  Again  ;  at  the  Lesser  Distance 283 

XXXV.  Eben's  Discourse 289 

XXXVI.  Mrs.  Gair  makes  up  her  Mind  to  be  Equal  to  it. . .  294 

XXXVII.  To-Morrow 298 

XXXVIII.  Seeking 302 

XXXIX.  Finding 308 

XL.  Thrums  Again 319 

XLI.  The  Sunny  Corner 327 

XLII.  "Elected!" 337 

XLIII.  Last ;  But  not  Final 345 


THE  GAYWORTHYS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
DOCTOR  GAYWORTHY'S  WOMEN-FOLKS. 

DID  you  ever  eat  strawberry  short-cake  ?  If  not,  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  put  you  in  the  way  of  that  delight,  further  than  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  a  delicious  mystery  of  cuisine,  known  among  certain 
dwellers  in  certain  hill  counties  of  New  England,  where  the  glo- 
rious scarlet  berry  blushes  indigenous  and  profuse  all  over  pasture 
slopes  and  mountain-sides  at  the  early  outburst  of  the  short  and 
fervid  summer.  A  mystery,  the  manner  of  whose  compounding 
is  a  grand,  masonic  secret  among  the  skilful  and  initiated  few ; 
for  it  is  not  every  farmer's  wife  or  daughter,  you  must  know,  who 
has  passed  that  high  degree  which  entitles  her  to  call  her  neigh- 
bors together  for  such  annual  regale  and  marvel. 

I  can  tell  you  this  only ;  that  on  the  June  day  wherefrom  I 
date  this  story,  in  the  great,  snowy-clean,  pewter-shining  kitchen 
of  the  Gayworthys,  solemn  preparations  were  toward  ;  that  on  the 
broad  dresser  stood  a  huge  pan,  heaped  high  with  the  glowing 
fruit,  wherefrom  the  whole  house  was  redolent  of  rich,  wild  fra- 
grance ;  that  beside  it,  on  either  hand,  waited,  in  plentiful  supply, 
flour  of  the  whitest,  and  cream  of  the  yellowest ;  and  that,  somehow, 
by  a  deft  putting  of  this  and  that  together,  the  mighty  result  was 
to  come. 

Huldah  Brown  stood,  bare-armed  and  waiting,  before  the  whole  ; 
and  looked  calculatingly  upon  the  gathered  material. 

"  It's  an  awful  lot,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then  they'll  every  soul  of 
'em  come,  from  all  pints  of  the  compass ;  and  when  they're  scalt 
and  mashed,  they  do  s'rink  down  ! " 

Huldah's  utterance  must  stand,  in  all  its  horrible  ambiguity,  as 
to  who  or  what  was  to  be  "  scalt  and  mashed."  I  may  not  venture 
to  throw  light  on  one  point,  lest  I  trespass,  with  unwarranted  illu- 
mination, upon  another. 

"  And  there's  a  manifest  providence,  comin'  across  the  chip- 
yard  ! " 

The  "  manifest  providence "  was  a  sharp-nosed,  little,  elderly 
woman,  in  a  striped  sun-bonnet,  with  a  three-quart  tin  pail  full  of 
strawberries,  which  she  changed  from  one  hand  to  the  other, 
wearily,  as  she  came  up  to  the  open  door. 

7 


8  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Miss  Vorse ! "  cried  Huldah,  from  the  stair-foot :  "  I  b'lieve 
my  soul,  we  hain't  got  berries  enough,  arter  all !  " 

"  You  don't  think  it,  Huldah ! "  came  back,  in  a  sharp  explosive 
consternation. 

"Well,  I  do  then!"  returned  Huldah,  "and  here's  Widder 
Horke  jest  comin'  along  with  a  pailful.  I  call  that  clear  luck  ! " 

"  See  what  she  asks  for  'em.  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute."  Hul- 
dah Brown  knew  very  well  at  which  end  to  present  a  suggestion. 
The  way  to  bring  people  to  your  own  conclusion  is  to  give  them, 
not  your  last  thought,  but  your  first. 

Huldah  startled  her  mistress  with  the  selfsame  doubt  that  had 
startled  herself,  and  then  brought  forward  the  "  manifest  provi- 
dence." 

Up-stairs,  in  the  white  bedroom,  were  gathered  the  four  ladies 
of  the  house ;  or,  in  country  parlance,  "  all  Dr.  Gayworthy's 
women-folks."  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair,  Mrs.  Prudence  Vorse,  and  the 
two  young,  unmarried  sisters,  Joanna  and  Rebecca. 

I  mention  first  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair.  Because,  though  she  cannot 
claim  the  precedence  of  seniority,  she  holds  the  stronger  right  of 
paramount  importance  among  the  sisters ;  and  is  at  this  moment 
the  center  and  oracle  of  their  group,  as  they  stand,  leaning  eager 
faces  in  between  the  white  festoons  of  dimity,  about  the  great, 
old-fashioned,  high-posted  bedstead,  whereon  lie  unfolded  and  dis- 
played certain  purchases,  which  the  city  lady  has  from  time  to 
time  been  commissioned  by  letter  and  pattern  to  make,  and  upon 
whose  fashion  and  quality  she  enlarges  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a 
perfect  att-f ait-ism. 

Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  came  up  from  Selport  two  days  since,  for  her 
yearly  summer  visit  in  Hilbury.  And  so,  the  Hilbury  season  has 
begun,  and  the  Gayworthys  are  giving  their  first  summer  party, 
and  strawberry  short-cake  is  the  chief  nominal  attraction  ;  while 
"  from  all  pints  of  the  compass  they'll  be  sure  to  come,"  although 
there  were  no  short-cake  at  all ;  since  Mrs.  Reuben  will  be  to  be 
seen  in  her  new  bright  green  silk,  of  the  freshest  Selport  style : 
and  every  soul  (feminine)  will  be  enabled  to  go  home,  having  taken 
mental  measurement  and  specification  thereof,  and  knowing  pre- 
cisely the  number  of  breadths  in  the  skirt,  and  the  width  of  the 
seven  little  "  crossway  "  ruffles  that  garnish  it. 

The  Gayworthy  sisters  have  made  an  early  toilet,  and  the  house 
is  in  early  festival  trim,  and  there  has  been  ample  time  for  the 
production  and  discussion  of  the  long-expected  fineries. 

Mrs.  Vorse,  or  "  sister  Prue,"  is  a  woman  of  five  and  thirty, 
who  looks  to  have  taken  life  hard.  She  made  "  no  great  of  a 
match  "  some  fifteen  years  ago,  and  has  come  back  within  the  four 
last  past,  to  keep  house  for  the  old  doctor,  who  is  her  stepfather 
only, — her  mother,  his  second  wife,  having  been  a  widow  with  this 
one  child, — while  her  young  half-sisters  have  been  away  at  school. 
Her  son,  Gershom  Vorse,  then  a  boy  of  eight,  came  with  her,  and 


Dr.  Gayworthy's  Women- Folks.  9 

here  they  still  abide,  greatly  to  the  comfort  of  the  worthy  doctor, 
whose  household  Prudence  guides  in  the  true  spirit  of  her  name, 
and  to  the  welcome  enfranchisement  of  Joanna  and  Rebecca  ;  not 
altogether,  either,  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  Mrs.  Reuben,  notwith- 
standing that  the  sisterhood  between  them  is  one  of  courtesy  and 
association  only  ;  Mrs.  Gair,  although  the  younger,  being  the  child 
of  the  first  Mrs.  Gayworthy  ;  and  thus,  as  she  could  not  help  re- 
membering, at  times,  with  a  certain  touch  of  jealous  restlessness 
as  connected  with  the  present,  and  an  as  certain,  but  half-examined 
complacency  as  regarded  the  contingencies  of  the  future,  "  really 
no  relation  at  all." 

"  A  double  family  of  girls  was  quite  enough  in  all  conscience ; 
and  then,  there  was  Prue's  great  boy ! "  Very  clumsy  and  ill- 
judged,  to  be  sure,  this  latter  circumstance,  on  the  part  of  Prue. 

The  world,  as  I  have  intimated,  had  been  hard  work  for  Pru- 
dence Vorse.  Things  had  not  fallen  in  comfortably  or  fortunately 
for  her,  as  they  do  for  some.  She  had  had  ten  years  of  trying  at 
life  which  was  not  life.  If  she  wanted  anything,  every  nerve  was 
to  be  strained  to  get  it.  The  people  about  her,  instead  of  being 
helps  to  her  wishes,  were  so  many  obstacles  for  her  to  overcome. 
She  had  always  been  heading  straight  against  a  stone  wall ;  the 
more,  because  it  had  never  been  in  her  nature  to  take  any  circuitous 
way.  Her  face  had  got  a  hard  directness  and  determination  in  it, 
so.  Her  voice  had  laid  aside  its  softer  modulations,  and  taken  a 
short,  strong,  uncompromising  tone.  Her  look,  her  movement, 
her  whole  bearing,  had  a  searchingness,  a  promptness,  a  decision, 
almost  aggressive,  in  them. 

Many  a  woman  hardens  or  sharpens,  through  the  opposing  or 
grinding  of  unkindly  circumstance,  who  else  might  have  been 
gentle,  restful,  round  with  grace  in  soul  and  lineament,  through 
nestling  lovingly  among  loving  influences.  Ah,  well !  God  sees  ! 

Mrs.  Gair,  on  the  contrary,  has  been  one  of  those  for  whom  all 
things  smile  ;  who  have  the  world  on  their  own  terms  ;  who  have 
always  pleasant  weather  for  their  pleasant  plans,  and  timely  tem- 
pest to  make  impossible  that  which  they  may  not  care  to  do. 
This,  at  least,  was  (he  look  her  life  wore  to  others ;  she  herself 
knew  her  own  unsatisfactions,  as  we  all  do  ;  whether  hers  were 
noble  or  ignoble  discontents  may  be  shown  as  we  shall  turn  the 
coming  pages. 

There  are  only  five  years  between  her  and  her  stepsister,  as 
they  stand  there  together;  the  one  in  her  glistening,  summer- 
bright  robe,  fresh  and  new  as  the  new  leaves  of  June ;  with 
round,  fair  face  unlined  by  any  perplexity,  and  hair  untouched  of 
autumn,  dressed  fearlessly  in  the  simple  style  of  the  time  ;  the 
other  in  her  well-kept  dress  of  not  too  costly  black,  having  that  air 
of  unusedness  which  a  black  silk  dress,  produced  only  upon  state 
occasions,  may  keep  through  whatever  vicissitudes  of  passing 
fashion  and  fading  gloss, — new  always  in  its  owner's  idea  however 


io  The  Gayworthys. 

shabby  it  may  come  to  be  to  eyes  of  others ;  cappy  head-dress, 
that,  although  it  is  to  the  regularly  instituted  cap  what  spring  eye- 
glasses are  to  spectacles,  yet  is,  like  them,  the  beginning  of  an 
acknowledgment ;  and  the  face  that  tells  its  ten  years'  story  as 
I  have  hinted ; — who  could  have  believed  in  but  that  five  years' 
difference  ? 

Joanna  and  Rebecca  are  young;  wearing  the  look  that  only 
early  girlhood  wears, — unwritten  of  any  past, — expectant  of  all 
future  possibilities.  What  need  to  describe  them  ?  Round, 
laughing,  and  fair, — the  one ;  slight,  brown,  delicate,  serious-eyed, 
— the  other ;  that  is  all.  The  years  of  their  lives — perhaps  the 
pages  of  this  story — shall  develop  or  contradict  whatever  prophecy 
you  may  read  in  two  such  faces. 

Meanwhile,  this  sketch  of  the  four  is  but  a  daguerreotype,  flashed 
in  an  instant ;  the  instant  wherein  Widow  Horke  still  pauses  upon 
the  door-stone,  and  busy  Huldah  Brown,  who,  you  may  be  certain, 
will  not  wait  there  long,  yet  lingers  at  the  stair-foot. 

And  sister  Prue  smooths  her  new  cap  that  has  been  brushed  a 
little  awry  by  the  cotton  fringes  of  the  bed-hangings,  and  hastens 
down-stairs  with  a  great  white  apron  tied  on  over  the  best  black 
silk,  and  sleeves  turned  up,  to  superintend  the  strawberry  short- 
cake ;  and  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair,  craving  help  of  her  two  young  sisters, 
lays  shawls  and  muslins  and  ribbons  and  patterns  carefully  back 
into  the  great  traveling  trunk  ;  which  being  locked,  she  plunges 
into  the  far  recesses  of  the  dark,  narrow  closet  that  runs  back 
between  the  chambers  their  full  length,  lest  half  Hilbury  map  get 
accidental  glimpse  or  confidentially  crave  full  sight  of  thess  new 
summer  things  that  have  come  from  Selport. 

"  You're  tired,  I  guess  ?"says  Huldah  Brown  to  the  widow,  as 
Mrs.  Vorse  comes  down  the  stairs. 

"Tired!"  answers  Widow  Horke,  emphatically.  "I'm  all 
gone  !  I  don't  know  where." 

"  Walk  in  and  sit  down,"  says  the  quick,  smart  voice  of  Pru- 
dence Vorse,  "  while  Huldah  measures  the  berries.  Three  quarts  ? 
I  don't  want  more  'n  two.  They'd  be  clear  wasted.  I  guess  Mrs. 
Hartshorne  '11  take  the  other.  Ten  cents  !  I  haven't  paid  but 
six  this  week  past." 

So  speaking,  Mrs.  Vorse  led  the  way,  pail  in  hand,  across  the 
kitchen  toward  the  dresser,  by  the  end  of  which,  with  a  volumi- 
nous sigh,  Widow  Horke  sunk  into  a  seat. 

"They're  wuth  that,  to  me,"  pleaded  the  latter,  with  a  low 
whine,  the  diminuendo  of  her  sigh. 

Mrs.  Vorse  turned  short  round,  and  pushed  the  pail  toward  her 
across  the  corner  of  the  board. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  was  the  prompt  decision,  "  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  just  to  take  "em  right  home  and  eat  'em.  They  won't  be 
so  valuable  to  anybody  else,  at  that  rate." 

Mrs.  Horke  laughed  faintly,  as  literally  at  her  own  expense. 


Dr.  Gayworthy's  Women-Folks.  n 

"  You're  allers  jest  so  queer,"  she  said.  "  Well,  seein'  it's  you, 
I  'spose  I  must  let  you  have  "em." 

"  Just  as  you  like.  Six  cents  is  a  fair  price."  And  Mrs.  Vorse 
went  over  into  the  pantry,  where  she  kept  odd  change  in  a  blue 
mug,  and  brought  back,  presently,  the  twelve  cents,  and  something 
beside,  wrapped  in  a  brown  paper. 

"  That'll  help  out  your  supper,"  said  she,  never  minding  that 
the  plum  cake  was  worth  five  times  the  difference  in  the  disputed 
price  of  the  strawberries.  Mrs.  Vorse  was  not  stingy.  But  she 
had  certain  rules  which  she  never  let  herself  off  from.  She  might 
give  away,  but  she  never  would  pay  an  exorbitant  price.  She  had 
an  uncompromising  sense  of  justice  which  carried  itself  out  into 
the  least  details. 

"  Sarah  Gair  ! "  she  cried  sharply,  as  a  child  of  seven,  sashed, 
pantaletted,  and  bronze-booted,  running  in  before  Mrs.  Reuben, 
and  across  to  the  tempting  dresser,  straightway  "thrust  in  a  thumb 
and  pulled  out  a  plum,"  from  Widow  Horke's  tin  pail, — "  if  you 
want  strawberries,  take  'em  out  of  the  pudding  dish  !  They're 
paid  for,  and  those  ain't ! "  and  she  deliberately  put  a  berry  from 
said  pudding-dish  back  into  the  pail. 

"  Lord'a  massy  !  ejaculated  the  widow,  laughing  genuinely  this 
time,  with  a  double  tickle  of  Mrs.  Prue's  oddity  and  the  aroma  of 
plum  cake,  "if  anybody  ever  heerd  the  like!  You  do  hev  the 
singl'rest  notions,  Miss  Vorse." 

"So  it  seems  to  me,"  remarked  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair,  as  the  straw- 
berry picker  took  up  her  pail  and  departed  across  the  chip-yard. 
"  And  they  don't  appear  always  to  be  quite  consistent ;  didn't  I  hear 
you  beating  the  poor  woman  down  in  her  price  a  minute  ago  ?  " 

"  That's  just  where  the  consistency  is,"  retorted  her  stepsister. 
"  Right's  right,  either  way. — She  may  be  poor,"  continued  Mrs. 
Prudence,  "  and  she  may  be  a  widow  woman ;  and  she  may  be 
rheumatic,  winters ;  and  she  may  live  all  alone  down  there  by  Gib- 
son's clearing  ;  but  that  ain't  any  reason  why  she  should  put  it  all 
on  to  the  price  of  a  mess  of  strawberries.  When  I  give,  I  give ; 
and  when  I  buy,  I  buy.— Sarah  Gair ! "  she  cried  again,  suddenly, 
to  the  small,  starched,  ribboned,  and  beruffled  creature  who  by 
this  time  was  peeping  in  furtively  at  the  pantry  door,  within  which, 
on  the  ample  shelves,  stood  the  whole  bountiful  variety  and  array 
of  country  delicacies  that  were  to  sustain  the  ancient  honor  of  the 
Gayworthy  table,  "  don't  you  make  up  your  mind  to  sponge-cake 
from  the  beginning,  this  time,  and  eat  five  pieces,  as  you  did  at  the 
Fairbrother's !  " 

The  child  drooped  down  from  head  to  foot,  from  her  glad,  eager 
attitude,  in  a  moment;  and  a  shame  that  only  rebuked  childhood 
knows,  dreaming  of  nought  more  shameful  than  the  present  fault 
whereof  it  stands  convicted,  rushed  over  her,  hot  and  scarlet. 

"Mrs.  Fairbrother  asked  me,"  she  murmured  faintly,  "and  ma 
won't  let  me  eat  plum  cake." 


12  The  Gayworthys. 

"  If  Mrs.  Fairbrother  asked  you  five  times,  three  times  you 
should  have  said,  '  No,  I  thank  you.'  " 

"  But,"  persisted  the  culprit,  more  confidently  now,  feeling  sud- 
denly to  have  the  great  Angel,  Truth,  upon  her  side,  "  she  asked 
me  if  I  wanted  some  more  :  and  I  did  !" 

Aunt  Prue  was  silent. 

"You  should  have  said  'No,  I  thank  you,'  all  the  same,"  ad- 
monished the  mother.  "  It  wasn't  polite." 

"  Polite !  "  cried  aunt  Prue,  aside.  "  Better  tell  her  not  to  be 
greedy." 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  all  those  people  think  of  you  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gair  flung  this  last  shaft, — a  great  battle-axe  of  world's- 
opinion  against  a  mere  gnat  of  transgression — and  then  the  two 
grown  women  forgot  the  whole  matter  in  five  minutes,  and  the 
child  crept  out,  and  sat  upon  the  door-stone,  and  felt  her  small 
pride  crushed,  and  her  character  stained  forever. 

The  strawberry  party,  at  least  it  seemed  so  at  this  moment,  was 
all  spoiled  now. 

So,  in  our  clumsy  recklessness,  we  deal  with  souls  ! 

Only,  the  dock  always  grows  beside  the  nettle.  It  is  God  who 
takes  care  of  that.  Aunt  Rebecca,  in  her  white  dress,  with  her 
pure,  gentle  young  face,  came  out  to  the  door-stone  and  stood 
behind  Sarah. 

The  pleasant  south  wind  was  blowing  through  the  great  maples 
that  stood  in  a  row  between  the  road  and  the  chip-yard ;  the  scent 
of  early  roses  came  up  from  the  low  flower-garden,  to  which  a  white 
gate,  and  a  few  rough  stone  steps  led  in  and  down  straight  opposite 
the  door.  Further  on,  beside  the  drive  that  wound  with  sudden 
slope  around  the  garden  to  the  right,  toward  the  great  barns,  stood 
the  long  trough,  hewn  from  a  tree-trunk,  and  holding  clear,  cool 
water  that  flowed  incessantly  into  it,  through  a  wooden  duct  of 
halved  and  hollowed  saplings,  leading  from  a  spring  in  the  hillside 
away  up  behind  the  house.  Here  a  yoke  of  tired  cattle  were  drink- 
ing,— the  plowboy  standing  patiently  beside ;  close  by  the  great 
creatures'  heads,  upon  the  trough-rim,  perched  fearless  chickens, 
dipping  their  yellow  bills;  and  underneath  and  around,  in  the 
merry,  unfailing  puddles,  splashed  and  quackled  the  ducks.  The 
bright  June  sun,  genial,  not  scorching,  hung  in  the  afternoon  sky. 
There  were  birds  in  the  maple  trees,  and  the  very  grass  about  the 
door-stone  was  full  of  happy  life.  Out  upon  all,  through  troubled 
eyes,  looked  a  little,  tender  human  soul  that  had  felt  a  pain. 

"What  is  it,  Say?" 

Say  turned  round  at  the  gentle  voice,  and  nestled  her  face  against 
the  folds  of  the  white  dress. 

"  I  ate  all  sponge-cake  for  my  supper  at  Mrs.  Fairbrother' s," 
she  murmured  like  a  penitent  at  confessional,  whispering  into 
priestly  ears  the  avowal  of  a  deadly  sin. 

"  And  that  was ?  "  said  Aunt  Rebecca, 


Dr.  Gay  worthy's  Women-Folks.  13 

"  Greedy.  Horrid."  So  far  she  spoke  from  sentence  of  others, 
out  of  her  shame ;  and  then  something  in  herself  rebelled  at  her 
own  words,  and  she  added,  with  sudden  defiance — "  But  I  don't 
see  why.  There  was  plenty  of  it.  And  they  asked  me." 

"  Plenty  for  you,  dear.  But  if  everybody  else  had  wanted  all 
sponge-cake  ?  " 

Sarah  saw  the  selfishness  then,  and  there  was  no  answer  for  her 
to  make.  She  dropped,  wretchedly,  back  into  her  self-contempt 
again. 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  child,  impulsively,  "  that  I  was  a  chicken. 
Only  a  little,  yellow,  peeping  chicken.  Like  those  down  there." 

"  Like  that  one,  running  away  to  hide  under  the  fence,  with  a 
barleycorn  in  his  mouth  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear !  "  This  soul  that  had  been  born  into  the  world,  and 
had  had  its  tiny  experience  of  the  evil,  might  chafe  in  vain.  She 
could  see  nowhere  her  escape,  not  even  into  chickenhood,  had  that 
been  possible. 

"  Not  that  way,"  said  Rebecca,  more  to  her  own  thought  than 
remembering  the  child.  "Only  toward  God." 

"  We  must  ask,  Say,  to  have  the  selfishness  taken  from  us. 
And  we  must  try  to  give  up.  We  can't  turn  into  chickens,  even  if 
that  would  do.  But  we  can  grow — to  be  angels.  This  one  little 
fault  may  make  you  better  all  your  life.  And,"  she  added,  with  a 
delicate  heart-instinct,  "  nobody  will  ever  remember  it !  " 

Say's  face  changed.  She  had  passed  through,  in  these  few 
moments — sensitive  children  do,  in  a  strange  undreamed-of  way, 
in  these  their  little  experiences — an  epitome  of  the  grand,  spiritual 
experience  of  human  life,  and  of  the  world.  All  things  great  are 
in  all  things  little.  Law  comes  with  its  rebuke, — its  fruitless  shame 
for  what  is  past ;  Gospel  with  its  word  of  mercy  for  what  has  been, 
its  hope  for  better  things  to  be.  Aunt  Prue  was  condemnation. 
Aunt  Rebecca  was  redemption.  The  child  loved  the  saintly  young 
girl,  at  that  moment,  as  men  love  their  Redeemer. 

She  might  overlive  it,  then ;  even  this  terrible  misdemeanor  of 
the  sponge-cake.  "  Nobody  would  remember  it."  The  words 
were  a  balm  like  that  which  comes  to  us  grown  sinners  with  God's 
words— "I  have  blotted  out  thy  transgressions;  I  will  not  re- 
member thy  sins." 

Say  slid  her  little  hand  into  Aunt  Rebecca's.  "  Let  me  stay  by 
you  at  tea-time,"  she  whispered.  "  Why,  Auntie  !  "  she  cried,  sud- 
denly, with  altered  tone,  as  for  the  first  time  she  lifted  her  eyes 
fully  to  the  kind  face  that  looked  down  upon  her.  "  You  had 
your  hair  in  those  pretty  puffs.  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  I  brushed  them  back  again,"  said  Aunt  Rebecca,  quietly. 

This  young  girl  of  nineteen  had  renounced  her  vanity  so.  She 
had  seen  in  her  glass  that  her  face  was  very  pretty,  set  in  its  glossy 
frame  of  smoothly  banded  locks ;  and,  lest  she  should  remember  it 
to  her  spiritual  hurt, — lest  she  should  so,  thinking  of  self,  forget 


14  The  Gayworthys. 

her  Lord, — she  had  put  them  back,  and  chosen  to  wear  only  her 
usual  and  unnoted  look  to-day. 

Moreover,  the  Reverend  Gordon  King  was  to  be  of  the  straw- 
berry party. 

I  do  not  say  that  puffs  are  sinful,  I  do  not  say  that  God  for- 
bids a  simple  joy  in  the  beauty  that  He  gives.  I  only  tell  you 
what  this  young  creature,  true  to  her  own  conception  of  duty,  did. 

Rebecca  Gayworthy  was  growing  into  the  character  that  primi- 
tive New  England  influences,  and  almost  these  alone,  develop  from 
certain  natures.  Out  of  these  by-places  where  the  Puritan  air 
still  lingers — out  of  these  Bethlehems,  slow  of  growth,  perhaps, 
but  the  less  tainted,  come  souls  that  rule.  That  walk  sternly  over 
self, — that  choose  the  thorns,— that  take  up  their  cross  daily,  giv- 
ing up  their  own  work  to  do  that  of  the  Lord  Christ.  Taught  from 
infancy  that  no  Church  or  outside  ark  is  to  save  them ;  that  no 
cabalism  of  words  said  over  them  is  to  bring  them  necessarily  into 
the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  admonished  of  the  spiritual  bir  h, — warned 
of  the  spiritual  death  ;  set  searching,  each  soul  for  itsel  what  this 
birth  may  mean, — how  salvation  from  this  death  be  won ;  the 
thoughtful,  earnest  spirit  wrestles  and  reaches  till  it  laj  *  hold  of 
sainthood. 

A  fugue  of  voices  from  within  called  Rebecca  at  this  noment. 
Flour  and  cream  and  fruit  had  been  carried  away.  The  hcur  had 
come  for  laying  the  long  table  in  the  great  front  kitchen,  .  ii  e  only 
room  in  the  farmhouse  which  might  afford  space  for  the  expected 
guests  at  a  real  comfortable,  sit-down,  tea-drinking,  wherea  alone 
might  strawberry  short-cake  be  fittingly  enjoyed.  At  other  tunes, 
the  Gayworthy  ladies  knew  well  how  to  order  and  preside  over 
the  stateliness  of  the  formal  "  handing-round  "  in  the  best  parlor. 
To-night  was  high  festival,  where  mere  gentility  took  second  place. 

The  wide  fireplace  was  garnished  with  greenery,  and  the  flames 
that  ordinarily  poured  upward  through  its  capacious  outlet  were 
kindling  unwontedly  in  the  out-room,  where  Huldah  Brown  was 
already  mixing  and  rolling,  and  would  shortly  be  "  scalding  and 
mashing," — high  priestess  of  the  mighty  mystery  that  she  was. 
The  dresser  held  now  the  wide  tray  laden  with  rare  old  china 
cups  and  saucers  and  plates  ;  teapots  of  the  same,  tall,  slender, 
quaint,  long-spouted,  high-handled  ;  little  pitchers  with  the  "  long 
ears,"  that  shall  forever  be  memorialized  while  little  human  recep- 
tacles with  the  like  appendages  continue  to  be  ;  all  these,  and 
many  of  them  ;  for  in  the  days  and  regions  of  notable  personal 
housewifery,  and  neat-handed  Huldahs  helping,  grandmother's 
treasures  of  porcelain  gathered  and  came  down,  with  neither  nick 
nor  breakage,  to  second  and  third  generations.  Alas,  for  the  days 
that  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more  forever  ! 

The  monstrous  linen-chest,  that  stood  in  the  great  "kitchen 
chamber  "  overhead,  had  delivered  up  its  most  voluminous  nape- 
ries  to  shroud  the  extended  board  whose  construction  for  the 


Dr.  Gayworthy's  Women-Folks.          15 

occasion,  since  no  guests  shall  have  need  to  spy,  we,  neither,  need 
pry  into  nor  explain.  There  was  a  sweet,  nameless,  delicate 
fragrance  in  the  air,  as  the  pure  white  folds  were  shaken  out, 
such  as  is  breathed  only  from  old  presses,  and  quaint  bureaus, 
and  great  chests  like  this  that  had  held  these,  wherein  women  of 
the  olden  time,  who  set  store  by  their  fair  linens  and  delicate 
laces,  and  silken  heirlooms  of  taffeta  and  brocade,  kept  daintily, 
with  bits  of  musk,  and  sprigs  of  lavender,  such  wealth  of  house 
and  wardrobe. 

Rebecca  was  summoned  to  assist  in  the  spreading  and  placing. 
An  hour  hence,  and  the  early  country  party  would  have  assembled. 

Sarah  Gair  stayed  outside,  waiting  to  see  what  Gershom  Vorse, 
coming  up  toward  her  from  the  orchard  gate,  with  one  of  the  farm 
men,  might  be  going  to  do. 

"  Eben  is  going  to  feed  the  pigs  now,  Say !  Come  out  into  the 
shed-chamber,  and  we'll  call  'em  in  ! " 

Say  sprang  down  from  the  door-stone  at  that,  eagerly;  and 
skipped,  in  a  dainty  way,  turning  out  the  toes  of  her  new  bronze 
boots,  over  the  bit  of  grass-plot  that  lay  between  her  and  the  wide 
open  doors  of  the  great  woodshed. 

Gershom  came  up,  with  a  certain  contempt  in  the  tread  of  his 
stout  country  shoes. 

"  I  forgot  you  were  all  dressed  up,  and  toes  in  position,"  said  he. 

Say  had  before  this  offered  to  teach  him  the  small  beginnings 
that  she  herself  had  made  in  the  sublime  art  which  includes 
"'  Deportment." 

"  That  isn't  a  bit  of  matter,"  returned  the  straightforward  little 
lady,  not  accepting  the  sarcasm,  and  picking  her  way  among 
the  scattered  chips  and  litter  along  the  shed,  with  a  continued, 
conscious  pleasure, — the  pleasure  of  using  pretty  things, — in  each 
separate  planting  of  the  trim,  golden-gleaming  little  feet.  "  It's  as 
nice  out  in  my  play-parlor,  as  it  is  in  Aunt  Prue's  best  room. 
Besides,  my  dollies  want  to  see  me,  by  this  time." 

The  shed-chamber  was  a  clean,  floored  room,  rough-beamed  and 
small-windowed,  at  the  further  end  of  the  building.  One  window 
opened  on  the  yard,  toward  the  house,  and  the  other  overlooked 
the  pig-pen,  and  pleasanter  things  beyond.  Through  the  middle 
of  the  floor  came  up  two  square,  box-like  constructions — open 
conduits  to  the  troughs  beneath. 

And  this  "  play-parlor,"  as  Say  called  it,  was  a  really  pleasant 
place.  To  a  child,  a  bit  of  Paradise,  roughly  boarded  in.  Here, 
in  any  weather,  Say  could  come,  and  amuse  herself  with  her  grand 
china-closet  of  broken  bits, — luckily  for  the  children,  common 
ware  did  get  fractured  now  and  then, — ranged  along  the  ledges  in 
one  corner ;  decorate  the  brown,  unplaned  walls  with  boughs  of 
green  and  wild  flowers  or  gay,  coarse  garden-blossoms  that  she 
had  "leave  to  pick ";  admonish  and  discipline,  dress  and  array, 
her  indefinite  family  of  corn-cob  children,  and  above  all,  when 


1 6  The  Gayworthys. 

everything  else  sated,  stand  at  the  "  pig-pen  "  window,  and  look 
out  over  the  green  meadow  stretching  towards  the  bit  of  oak  woods 
that  skirted  the  opposite  boundary  of  the  wet  land  with  its 
green  mystery,  which  nobody  but  the  pigs  ever  penetrated,  and 
whither  these  happy  animals  daily  betook  themselves  through  a 
little  wicket-gate  left  open  from  their  board  and  lodging  place. 
The  call  from  this  window,  in  a  high,  peculiar  monotone,  "  pig- 
P'g~pig-pig-pig>'  would  bring,  first  one,  then  another,  and  at  last 
the  whole  drove,  peeping  out  from  the  oak-grove,  and  scampering 
across  the  meadow  to  their  roomy,  and  not  unclean  quarters  with- 
in the  wicket ;  where,  at  suitable  intervals,  buckets-full,  not  of 
common  refuse,  but  of  what  to  swinish  appreciation,  must  have 
seemed  the  most  sumptuous  white  soup, — a  boiling  of  vegetables 
added  to  the  surplus  of  the  dairy, — rich  buttermilk,  or  sweet  whey, 
or  plentiful  skimmed  milk,  better  than  humans  in  the  cities  pay 
for, — was  poured,  a  luscious  flood,  down  the  square  conduits  above 
mentioned.  I  think  pigs  were  never  so  happy,  so  well  lodged,  so 
bountifully  and  delicately  fed,  as  these  of  Grandpapa  Gay  worthy  ! 
What  with  the  liberty  abroad,  and  the  dainties  at  home,  it  was 
the  very  poetry  of  pork. 

At  any  rate,  Sarah  Gair  was  hardly  ever  more  happy  than  in 
luring  them  out  from  their  green,  shady  covert  where  the  sweet 
acorns  grew,  and  watching  their  eagerness  as  they  scrambled  along 
the  meadow-path,  and  into  their  dining-parlor,  and  tumbled  up 
confusedly  about  the  troughs ;  lifting  their  small,  keen  eyes, 
like  many  a  creature  of  higher  organization  with  a  very  assured 
expectancy  of  good  gifts  due,  according  to  precedent,  from  above. 

"  Eben — ezer  !  "  cried  Say,  from  the  window,  as  the  man  entered 
the  chamber  behind  them,  and  set  his  pail  beside  the  great  wooden 
spouts.  "  The  gate's  blown  to  !  The  pigs  can't  get  in  !  Make 
haste, — there's  grandpa  driving  down  the  yard  !  " 

"  An'  I  guess  he'll  want  his  horse  took  out,  afore  I  come  back 
again.  So  you  an'  the  pigs  can  wait.  It'll  be  sometime,  too,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  You  can't  expect  a  man  that  carries  a  name 
as  long  as  that,  to  stir  round  quite  so  spry  as  a  Jack-be-nimble  !  " 

Eben  had  so  his  sly  revenge  for  Say's  mischievous  giving  of  the 
whole  title,  which,  it  was  well  known  in  the  household,  he  very 
decidedly  disliked.  He  left  the  pails  as  they  were,  beside  the 
spouts,  and  went  down  to  the  yard  below.  As  he  set  the  wicket 
back,  Dr.  Gayworthy  really  did  call  to  him.  Meanwhile  the 
children  at  the  window  called  the  pigs. 

"  How  funny  they  look,"  said  Say,  "  with  their  great  ears  flap- 
ping, and  their  queer,  flat  noses  going,  so  !  "  and  she  turned  her 
lips,  very  drolly,  inside  out  and  up  and  down  against  nose  and 
chin,  and  tried  to  work  them,  pig-fashion. 

"  There  they  come,  tumbling  and  grunting,"  as  the  creatures 
crossed  their  outer  court  and  disappeared  beneath  the  building. 
"  And  now.  I  wish  Eb  would  come." 


Dr.  Gay  worthy's  Women- Folks.          17 

To  pass  away  the  time,  Say  skipped  down  from  the  block  of 
Camber  upon  which  she  stood  at  the  window,  and  executing  certain 
Vnperfectly  learned  "dancing  steps."  fell  to  admiring  her  new 
boots  again, — chatting  on,  all  the  while,  to  Gershom. 

"  Did  you  know  we're  going  to  have  a  little  table,  you  and  I, 
and  take  tea  at  the  same  time  with  the  company?" 

"  I  hate  company,"  answered  Gershom,  gruffly.  "  People  stuck 
round,  mincing  at  little  bits,  and  saying,  '  No,  I  thank  you,'  with 
their  mouths  puckered  up,  when  they  want  it,  all  the  time  !  I  hate 
company,  and  I  hate  company  manners  ! — '  Ma-1-vi-ny  ! '  "  he 
drawled,  in  a  high,  plaintive  pitch  of  voice,  "  '  take— your  fingers — 
out — of  the  su-gar  bowl !  Do-n't — touch — the  pie — until — it's 
cut!'  That's  Mrs.  Fairbrother.  And  then  she  gives  her  a  lump 
of  sugar,  and  a  big  piece  of  cake  to  eat  in  a  corner,  so  as  to  make 
her  behave.  P— ff !  " 

"  But  then,"  put  in  little  Say,  quite  seriously,  "  people  must 
behave,  you  know.  We  shouldn't  like  to  act  like  the  pigs  down 
there,"  as  a  fierce,  impatient  scramble  and  squealing  was  heard 
from  about  the  empty  troughs. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Gershom,  a  little  less  gruffly,  but  with 
a  tone  of  cavil,  still.  "  It's  wrong,  somehow.  It  ain't  real.  If 
tixjy'd  like  to  be  like  the  pigs,  they'd  better  do  it." 

"  I'm  sure  /shouldn't  like  to  be  like  the  pigs,"  said  Say,  practis- 
ing a  waltz  step  pretty  successfully.  "  I  like  to  be  nice  !  " 

"O  yes,"  returned  Gershom,  with  a  small  sneer.  "You  like  to 
wear  new  brown  boots,  and  be  fine,  I  daresay.  But  that  ain't  it." 

"  Gershom  !     You're  cross !  " 

"  No,  I  ain't.  But  you're  proud.  You're  thinking  all  the  time 
of  your  boots.  You're  thinking  there  isn't  another  pair  in  allt 
Hilbury  like  'em.  What  if  there  isn't  ?  That  don't  make  you  any 
better  than  the  rest.  You've  got  nothing  but  bare  feet,  like  every- 
body's else,  inside  'em,  after  all ! " 

"  Gershom  !     You're  real  ugly.     I  don't  care  for  my  boots  ! " 

"  Poh  !  That's  likely !  Don't  you  pick  round,  like  a  cat,  for 
fear  you  should  wet  'em  or  scratch  'em  ?  "  And  Gershom  turned 
away,  in  utter  disdain. 

"  I'd  just  as  lief  spoil  'em  as  not !     See  here  !  " 

Gershom  turned  his  head,  again,  at  the  passionate  tone  and  a 
sudden  splash  ;  and  Eben  re-entered  the  shed-chamber  at  the  same 
moment.  The  two  saw  something  astonishing.  A  small  figure, 
dilated  with  an  angry,  desperate  triumph,  holding  itself  haughtily, 
erect,  motionless,  in  a  pig's-pail  ! 

Gershom's  scorn  was  the  one  thing  Say  could  not  bear.  Wo- 
man-like, she  vindicated  herself  impetuously  and  recklessly,  from 
one  suspicion,  by  rushing,  absurdly,  into  an  opposite  excess.  She 
had  her  reward,  as  women  have. 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  mends  the  matter,"  was  the  cool,  slight- 
ing comment  of  the  boy. 


1 8  The  Gayworthys. 

"  You  can't  say  any  more  about  my  boots,  anyhow ! "  And 
standing  there  still  in  her  ridiculous  attitude,  from  which  even  the 
dignity  of  a  righteous  resentment  now  fell  away,  she  burst  into  a 
passion  of  impotent  tears. 

Eben  lifted  her,  quietly,  by  the  shoulders,  and  set  her,  dripping, 
upon  the  floor.  "  Well,  I  vum  ! "  said  he,  "  that's  spunky.  If  ever 
I  see  the  like  o'  that  afore,  my  name  ain't  Eben ezer ! " 

Say  stood  sobbing,  conscious  of  ignominious  failure ;  remem- 
bering, with  a  rush,  all  that  lay  before  her  now, — the  getting  into 
the  house  again, — her  mother's  and  aunt's  displeasure, — all  that 
was  utterly  impossible  and  horrible  to  do  and  to  bear.  She  stood 
there  in  a  shame,  and  fear,  and  agony ;  and  in  a  great  pause,  that 
seemed  like  the  end  of  all  things.  The  next  that  life  had  for  her 
might  come ;  she  could  not  move  to  meet  it. 

Then  Gershom  changed  his  mood.  Conceit  and  vanity  and  self- 
satisfaction, — the  shams  of  society  patent  to  his  early  experience, 
— these  he  could  battle  with  and  put  down.  These,  boy  as  he 
was,  he  had  no  mercy  for.  But  humiliation  and  helplessness  and 
tears, — these,  the  man-chivalry  aroused  in  him  to  pity  and  to  help. 

He  came  and  drew  Say  gently  by  the  arm.  "  Come,"  said  he ; 
"  never  mind  !  Sit  down  here  on  the  block."  Say  let  herself  be 
put  there,  passively. 

Gershom  unfastened  and  drew  off  the  soaked  boots  and  stock- 
ings, and  then  brought  a  dipper  full  of  water  from  the  well,  which 
he  poured  over  the  white  little  feet  and  ankles,  and  the  unhappy 
pantalets.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  don't  cry  ;  but  come  up  the  back 
stairs  with  me.  There's  nobody  but  Huldah  in  the  out-room. 
And  you  and  I'll  have  our  supper  in  the  kitchen-chamber." 

There  was  nobody  like  Gershom  for  tormenting  or  consoling. 

This  childish  scene  betrayed  something,  on  each  side,  of  char- 
acter, and  foreshadowed  much  of  what  was  yet  to  be. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DOWN   AMONG  THE  COMPANY. 

"  FROM  all  points  of  the  compass  "  they  began  to  arrive.  Not 
that  this  implies  necessarily  any  mighty  concourse  ;  there  was  no 
other  way  for  a  gathering  to  be  made  in  Hilbury.  It  was  one  of 
those  great,  thinly  populated  townships  that  lie  about  among  the 
hills  in  certain  New  England  regions,  which  have  a  small  settle- 
ment— sometimes  that  only  of  a  single  family,  with  its  branches — 
in  each  corner,  and  a  meeting-house  in  the  middle.  There  were, 
in  Hillbury,  the  separate  villages  of  the  Center,  the  Bridge,  Law- 
ton's  and  Gibson's  Corners,  and  Gair's  Hill.  So,  from  all  these 


Down  Among  the  Company.  19 

they  came,  — from  up  the  road  and  down  the  road, — and,  driving 
across  the  chip-yard,  tied  their  horses  to  the  garden  fence. 

Dr.  Gayworthy's  house  stood,  if  mathematics  admit  of  such  an 
expression,  in  the  edge  of  the  Center,  It  was  a  fair,  prosperous- 
looking  building,  kept  fresh  with  seasonable  paintings,  of  a  mellow, 
sunny,  smiling  straw-color;  the  color  in  the  country,  most  indica- 
tive of  well-to-do-ing.  It  had  an  air  somehow,  among  the  neigh- 
boring dwellings  of  dusky  red,  as  of  a  dainty  lady  in  primrose 
silk  among  rustics  wearing  common  scarlet  cotton  print. 

The  children — Gershom  and  Say — watched  the  arrival  of  the 
company  from  the  "  clothes-room "  window, — the  clothes-room 
being  a  large,  light  closet,  off  the  southwest  end  of  the  great 
kitchen-chamber.  f 

Say's  spirits  were  reacting  merrily  from  her  terror  and  disgrace. 
Mrs.  Reuben,  intent  at  the  moment  upon  the  placing  of  the  iced 
plum-cakes,  had  but  half  comprehended  the  catastrophe  which 
Gershom  tried  to  convey  to  her  knowledge,  taking  to  himself  as 
large  a  share  of  the  blame  as  might  be. 

"  I'll  warrant  it !  "  was  her  exclamation.  "  If  there's  a  mischief 
to  be  got  into,  she'll  be  sure  to  find  it !  " 

"  She's  very  sorry  about  it,  Aunt  Jane.  You  won't  scold  her, 
will  you  ?" 

Something  in  this  appeal,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  of  word 
or  manner,  seemed  to  give  "  Aunt  Jane  "  more  annoyance  than  all 
the  previous  recital.  She  motioned — I  might  say,  if  it  were  elegant, 
elbowed— him  off,  with  the  arm  against  which,  in  his  eagerness  to 
follow  her  along  the  table,  he  pressed  a  little,  to  the  damage 
of  the  new  French  embroidered  cape,  with  its  innumerable  delicate 
lace  finishings  and  frills,  the  like  of  which  had  never  before  been 
seen  in  Hilbury.  The  gesture  was  more  pettish  than  it  was  like 
her  usual  self  to  be ;  for  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  rarely  allowed  herself 
to  be  "  put  about,"  as  the  common  saying  is  ;  she  had  a  way  of 
smoothly  steering  along  toward  her  ends,  whether  great  or  small ; 
without  ever  jostling  against  anything  or  anybody. 

"  There,  go  away,"  she  returned,  hastily.  "  I've  no  time,  now, 
for  scolding,  or  anything  else.  If  you've  got  her  into  a  mess, 
you'll  have  to  take  care  of  her  and  keep  her  out  of  the  way." 

Gershom  skipped  up  the  out-room  stairs,  well  pleased  at  gaining 
even  this  much. 

"  The  worst's  over,  Say,"  he  said.  "  She  knows.  And  she 
wasn't  so  terrible  angry,  after  all.  She  seemed  more  put  out 
about  my  tumbling  her  new-fashioned  Vandyke,  or  whatever  you 
call  it.  than  anything  else." 

So  Say  was  in  spirits  again  ;  and  sat,  like  a  barefooted  princess, 
upon  the  divan  of  blankets  and  "  comfortables"  that  lay  piled  be- 
low the  clothes-room  window,  and  watched  the  gay  arrivals  ;  and 
Gershom,  by  and  by,  when  the  strawberry  feasting  began  below, 
ran  up  and  down  the  out-room  staircase,  receiving  from  friendly 


2O  The  Gayworthys. 

Huldah  Brown  nice  bits  of  what  he  and  Say  liked  best ;  and  Say 
thought  nothing  in  the  world  worth  wishing  for  any  longer,  since 
Gershie  was  so  good-natured. 

"  I  told  you  I  didn't  care  about  my  boots,"  she  cried.  "  I'd 
rather  be  here  than  down  among  the  company,  a  great  deal ! " 

Down  among  the  company,  however  it  might  be  as  to  bodily 
wants,  there  was  perhaps  many  a  heart-hunger  less  abundantly 
ministered  to  than  little  Sarah  Gair's. 

Stacy  Lawton  felt  no  scruple  about  wearing  her  hair  in  the  new 
puffs.  She  had  thought  of  little  else  since  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair 
appeared  in  them  at  Mrs.  Fairbrother's  sewing-circle. 

She,  as  well  as  Rebecca  Gayworthy,  had  heard  the  young  min- 
ister, Gordon  King,  preach  his  two  sermons  last  Sunday,  the  one 
upon  "  seeking  first  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His  righteousness  ;  " 
after  which,  Stacy,  with  a  party  of  other  young  girls,  had  adjourned 
to  spend  the  "  noon-time "  with  a  friend  close  by  the  meeting- 
house, in  eating  cold  pie,  cake,  and  cheese,  and  in  low-toned  discus- 
sion among  themselves  as  to  how  it— not  this  seeking  of  the 
kingdom,  but  the  hair-dressing  was  done ;  the  other,  at  afternoon 
service,  upon  the  "  mortifying  of  the  flesh  "  ;  from  which  she  went 
straightway  home,  and  used  her  leisure  hours  of  twilight  in  patient 
experiments  before  her  glass,  until  the  hairs  of  her  head,  which 
the  Scripture-reading  of  the  day  had  admonished  her  she  "  could 
neither  make  white  nor  black,"  took  shape  and  place  as  she  desired. 

Rebecca  Gayworthy  shut  herself  in  her  chamber,  also ;  but  she 
sat  there  in  a  still,  solemn  presence  that  pervaded  her  soul ;  and 
in  the  fair  garden  thereof  the  Lord  God  walked  in  this  cool  of 
His  day. 

So  Stacy  Lawton  came  to  the  strawberry  party  with  her  dark 
hair  banded  stylishly  from  off  her  face  ;  and  the  consciousness  that 
she  was  looking  very  pretty,  and  that  people  were  noticing  it,  gave 
a  sparkle  to  her  eyes,  and  a  sprightly  grace  and  ease  to  her  move- 
ments that  made  her,  as  indeed  she  was  very  apt  at  all  times  to  be. 
quite  the  belle  of  the  occasion.  Say  what  you  will  of  violets,  and 
unconscious  charms,  the  perk  little  daisy  gets  the  better  of  it  in  the 
eye  of  the  world  ;  and  there  is  nothing  that  helps  beauty  so  to  its 
full  success  as  just  the  spice  of  consciousness  that  gives  confidence. 

And  Rebecca  had  put  from  her  the  like  adornment,  for  con- 
science's sake.  Foolishly,  you  say  ?  I  am  not  sure.  There  is  some- 
where this  written — that  "  all  things  shall  work  together  for  good 
to  them  that  love  God."  Even  a  mistaken  or  needless  self-sacri- 
fice, then.  "  There  is  none  that  hath  forsaken  anything  for  the 
kingdom  of  heaven's  sake  but  shall  receive  manifold  more."  God's 
promise  to  pay  holds  good,  I  think. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  very  true  that  Gordon  King,  as  he  stood  talk- 
ing for  a  few  moments  with  Rebecca  upon  his  first  entrance, 
thought  silently  that  "  somehow,  she  wasn't  quite  so  pretty,  after 
all.  as  he  had  fancied  ;  "  and  that  Stacy  Lawton's  bright  glance 


Down  Among  the  Company.  21 

and  musical  laugh  enticed  him  presently  to  that  corner  of  the  room 
where  she  held  small,  merry  court ;  where  she  made  room  for  him 
at  her  side  with  a  beaming  look  that  seemed  warm  welcome  only, 
but  was  secretly,  also,  kindled  of  a  coquettish  triumph. 

The  Reverend  Gordon  King  was  very  like  other  young  men,  it 
must  be  owned  ;  and  although  he  preached  from  the  Bible  on  a 
Sunday  the  truth  he  found  there,  he  went  out  fiom  his  pulpit  of  a 
week-day  into  the  little  world  about  him,  and  valued  the  things 
thereof  greatly  after  the  world's  own  fashion.  "Take  no  thought 
for  raiment,  what  ye  shall  put  on,"  he  had  read  and  exhorted  ;  yet 
here  he  was,  quite  appreciative  of  the  results  of  Miss  Stacy's 
"  taking  thought "  which  had  brought  about  all  this  blooming 
prettiness  in  puffed-hair  and  pink  muslin. 

I  do  not  mean  that  Gordon  King  was  a  hypocrite, — to  be  ranked 
with  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  in  the  condemnation.  I  mean 
simply,  that  he  was  no  better  than  human ;  and  as  yet,  perhaps, 
not  wholly  sanctified  human.  There  may  be  snuffling,  canting 
"shepherds," — Stigginses,  Chadbands,  and  the  like  in  the  world. 
I  have  not  known  them.  I  only  speak  of  people  of  whom  I  know 
such  to  have  been. 

Preaching  ran  in  the  King  family  ;  as  politics  or  doctoring,  sailor- 
ing  or  soldiering,  run  in  some  others.  The  uncle  of  Gordon  had 
been  a  divine,  eminent  in  his  neighborhood,  degreed  in  due  course, 
as  Doctor  Divinitatis,  and  now  occupying  a  good  college  professor- 
ship. His  elder  brother  was  in  Batavia,  sent  out  by  the  A.  B.  C. 
F.  M.  His  father  was  an  influential  deacon  in  the  church  ;  his 
sister  had  married  the  Rev.  Felix  Fairbrother ;  which  brings  him 
into  the  pulpit  of  Hilbury  and  into  the  scene  of  our  story.  He 
had  gone  through  a  college  course  ;  he  had  studied  in  the  Divinity 
School ;  he  had  also,  as  needful  preliminary  to  this, — not  feignedly,, 
but  of  good  faith,— putting  himself  "  in  the  way  of  grace," — gone 
through  what  passed  with  himself  and  those  about  him  for  the  gen- 
uine order  of  religious  experience ;  he  believed  himself,  and  was 
believed,  to  have  received  the  renewing  gift — the  intangible  ordi- 
nance of  the  Spirit.  How  was  he  truly  to  know  if  what  he  had 
gotten  were  the  same  wherein  another  soul  rejoiced  ? 

Life  was  to  test  for  him  and  teach  him  this.  God,  who  worked, 
doubtless,  in  these  very  cues  of  circumstance,  calling  him  outwardly, 
might  have  laid  up  for  him  in  his  future,  a  nobler,  intenser  expe- 
rience than  any  whereto  he  had  yet  reached  in  these  five  and  twenty 
years  that  were  past. 

Meanwhile,  for  this  party  at  the  Gayworthys,  he  had  dressed 
with  thoughts  not  very  different  from  those  that  any  other  bachelor 
of  twenty-five  might  have  had,  in  dressing  for  a  ladies'  party. 
There  was  an  external  difference.  He  folded  about  his  neck  the 
white  cravat,  at  that  time  the  still  distinctive  badge  of  his  order. 
Two  white  cravats,  successively,  I  should  say  ;  for  the  first  that  he 
essayed  proving  to  be  but  limply  starched,  and  the  great  house- 


22  The  Gayworthys. 

clock  below  reminding  him  at  the  same  moment  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  he  had  flung  it  down  with  a  very  unclerical  gesture  of — 
to  say  the  least — impatience ;  and  an  inarticulate  ejaculation  that,, 
on  ruder  or  unconsecrated  lips  might  have  gone  nigh  to  syllable 
itself  profanely.  I  don't  say  that  it  wasn't  a  great  deal  better  so 
than  if  he  had  actually  said  anything  that  would  need  to  be  spelt 

with  a  black ;  and  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  did  use  bad  words. 

But  I  wonder  if,  after  all,  the  angels  up  above  listen  so  heedfully 
for  the  vibrations  of  these  gases  about  our  earth  which  feed  and 
pulsate  to  our  human  breath  as  for  the  tremblings  of  the  unseen 
spirit ;  and  whether  the  state  of  mind  of  the  Reverend  Gordon 
King  for  the  moment  was  really  so  widely  unlike  that  of  the  poor 
man  whose  hay-cart  I  saw  topple  over  in  the  field  the  other  day, 
and  who  did  say  something  with  a  dash  in  the  middle.  And  I  am 
afraid  that,  as  a  general  statement  men  are  but  men,  too  often  ; 
and  that,  lest  they  might  be  worse,  it  behooves  somebody  to  look 
after  them  pretty  carefully,  even  in  the  matter  of  white  cravats. 

Howbeit,  this  was  he  whom  Rebecca,  in  her  innocent  reverence, 
held  as  one  sanctified  of  God  above  common  men.  For  whom  she 
would  not  use  any  harmless  art  of  outer  adornment ;  but  rather 
hallow  herself,  and  hold  herself  pure  of  earthly  vanity,  if  so,  at 
least,  she  might  keep  her  soul  upon  the  plane  of  such  as  his ;  if 
so,  at  least,  she  might  be  utterly  worthy,  whether  it  should  please 
God  that  she  might  win  his  love,  or  no.  Ah,  there  is  a  sainthood 
to  whose  companionship  such  life  reaches,  though  that  which  it 
believes  in  seem  to  mock  its  faith  ! 

If  Gordon  King  had  held  the  answering  talisman  in  his  own 
soul,  he  should  not,  this  night,  have  been  lured  away  to  the  false 
princess,  while  the  true,  veiled  in  her  meek-heartedness,  waited  so 
near  his  side. 

Rebecca,  moving  about  among  the  guests  with  her  Madonna 
hair  and  quiet  look,  grew  even  a  shade  more  quiet,  perhaps,  but 
that  was  all.  Joanna,  bright  and  laughing,  with  a  little  positive 
emphatic  way  of  her  own  of  uttering  droll  or  absurdly  extravagant 
things,  that  made  everybody  else  laugh  with  her,  was  somehow 
also  a  little  more  pronounced  in  her  special  characteristics, — a 
little  more  queer,  and  animated,  and  hyperbolical  than  usual. 
Nobody  guessed, — as  she  kept  a  knot  of  the  Hilbury  girls  in 
chimes  of  merriment  with  a  carefully  detailed  receipt  for  the  fa- 
mous short-cake,  in  which  she  gravely  asserted  "  soft  soap,  beaten 
to  a  cream  "  to  be  the  chief  ingredient,  and  described  to  their  eager 
questionings  the  secret  arrangement  of  "  seventeen  crash  flounces  " 
which  she  declared — ladies  were  not  caged  or  coopered  then — held 
Mrs.  Reuben's  skirts  in  such  graceful  rotundity, — the  stealthy 
anxiety  that  glanced  through  all  her  fun,  in  the  quick  half-turn  cf 
her  head  at  each  movement  near  the  door  ;  or  the  disappointment 
that  was  gradually  settling  down  cold  upon  her  heart,  as  time 
wore  on,  and  somebody,  whom  she  looked  for,  did  not  come  ;  and 


Down  Among  the  Company.  23 

no  one  around  her  caught,  as  she  did,  a  chance  word  of  Mrs. 
Hartshorne's,  who  stood  a  dozen  feet  off,  in  answer  to  a  question 
put  by  Mrs.  Prue,  that  Joanna  dared  not,  for  her  life,  have  put, 
herself. 

"  Gabriel's  gone  over  to  Deepwater,  sailing  with  the  Purcells. 
He  promised  a  week  ago,  to  go,  when  they  settled  on  a  day  ;  and 
Aleck  Purcell  came  over  this  morning  to  get  him." 

"  Are  the  Frank  Purcells  staying  there  still?" 

"  O  yes — the  young  folks.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  went  back  last 
Tuesday." 

After  that,  Joanna  laughed  more  merrily  yet,  and  became  yet 
more  absurd.  And  her  end  of  the  room  grew  quite  noisy  with 
the  "  gale "  the  girls  got  into ;  and  plaintive  Mrs.  Fairbrother, 
away  over  opposite,  quite  worn  out  with  continual  mild,  ineffec- 
tual remonstrances  with  "  Malviny,"  who,  as  the  minister's  child, 
was  privileged  to  be  taken  everywhere,  said  to  her  husband, — "  It's 
Joanna  Gayworthy.  She's  always  in  such  high  spirits.  She'll  get 
sobered  down,  one  of  these  days,  when  she  comes  to  see  care  and 
trouble." 

Joanna  Gayworthy,  at  the  same  moment,  was  thinking,  in  her 
secret  heart,  how  nice  it  would  be,  when  all  these  people  were 
gone,  and  the  china  set  away,  and  the  house  shut  up,  and  lights 
put  out,  and  she  in  bed,  having  a  good  cry  to  herself,  in  the 
dark. 

Well, — this  was  a  strawberry  party.  It  makes  no  difference. 
That,  or  anything  else,  as  it  might  happen.  It  was  life,  which 
finds  slight  outside  seeming  and  excuse,  and  veils  so  its  great 
workings.  You  don't  hold  out  to  people,  undisguisedly,  the  hun- 
dred different  hopes  and  motives  which  you  know  will  bring  them 
together,  when  you  invite  them  to  your  house.  You  ask  them  to 
eat  strawberries,  or  to  listen  to  music,  or  to  dance  the  polka.  The 
rest  is  incidental, — thrown  in.  So  we  come  to  live  double.  No- 
body says  anything  about  it,  but  every  one  is  conscious  of  some- 
thing, be  it  what  it  may,  that  underlies  the  dressing  and  the  danc- 
ing, and  the  feasting,  and  the  words  of  the  hour,  which  is  the 
reality ;  else  there  is  none,  in  it  all.  Take  this  away,  and  the 
whole  crumbles  into  nothing.  The  game  is  not  worth  the  candle. 
The  candle,  henceforth,  goes  out. 

Doctor  Gayworthy  knew  all  this  ;  but  he  had  got  past  the  time 
for  thinking  much  about  it.  He  could  have  remembered  hours 
wherein  all  life  had  seemed  to  him  centered  ;  hours  that  seemed  an 
existence,  questioning  nothing  of  a  beginning  or  an  end  ;  a  husk- 
ing, or  a  quilting,  or  a  winter  dance,  the  simple  scene  of  which 
had  widened  out  with  a  breadth  of  experience  that  made  it  as  a 
theater  whereon  the  pivotal  act  of  a  human  life  was  played,  while 
all  the  eager  stars  looked  down ;  he  could  have  remembered  when, 
as  his  real  life  withdrew  itself,  and  centered  otherwise  and  else- 
where, such  gatherings  began  to  lose  their  charm,  and  he  came  to 


24  The  Gayworthys. 

wonder  how  it  was  that  there  were  no  longer  any  such  drives,  or 
dances,  or  bees,  or  frolics,  as  had  been  when  he  was  young.  Now, 
even  this  was  past ;  he  neither  participated  nor  wondered  ;  but 
accepted  or  offered  a  hospitality  that  was  part  of  a  routine,  and 
only  looked  to  it,  that,  so  far  as  depended  upon  him,  everybody 
got  their  tea  and  cake,  which  was  what  they  had  ostensibly  come 
for. 

So,  to-night,  the  Doctor,  worthy  gentleman,  looked  up  and 
down  among  his  daughters'  guests,  and  saw  that  all  was  plentiful 
and  comfortable ;  and  he  walked  about  the  rooms  after  tea  was 
over,  and  noticed  everybody,  and  chatted  with  a  few  ;  and  observed, 
indeed,  that  Rebecca  was  a  little  pale  and  still  to-night, — tired, 
perhaps,  with  her  preparations  ;  and  that  Joanna  was,  as  always,  a 
gay  little  gipsy,  and  the  life  of  the  company  ;  and  it  never  occurred 
to  him  to  imagine  that  these  two  or  three  hours  wherein  he  wore 
his  best  coat,  and  submitted  to  this  little  temporary  stir  in  the 
house,  were  any  more  to  them,  by  chance,  than  they  might  be  to 
himself. 

As  the  company  thinned  off,  toward  nine  o'clock,  this  little 
scene  took  place  between  him  and  Mrs.  Reuben  in  the  tea-room, 
whence  Huldah  was  removing  the  "  things,"  and  whither  the  doctor 
had  come  for  a  surreptitious  "  third  cup  "  which  he  had  not  got  at 
the  regular  time. 

"  Where  are  the  children  ?     I  haven't  seen  them  to-night." 

"  Why,  Gershom  got  Say  into  some  sort  of  a  scrape  in  the  shed- 
chamber,  while  the  pigs  were  being  fed  ;  and  splashed  her  with 
the  pails,  I  believe ;  1  hadn't  time  to  dress  her  over,  or  to  inquire 
much  about  it.  I  wish  the  boy  wasn't  so  rude  and  teasing." 

"  Got  into  a  scrape,  did  they  ?  I'm  sorry  for  that.  He's  a  very 
good  sort  of  boy,  though,  Jane.  A  remarkably  good  boy;  and 
steady,  too,  for  his  age.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
Gershom." 

Mrs.  Gair  was  apparently  intent  upon  a  stain  of  something 
which  had  fallen  upon  the  front  breadth  of  her  new  silk,  and  which 
she  was  trying  to  wipe  off  with  a  wet  napkin. 

"  He  ought  to  be  a  good  boy,"  she  remarked.  "  He  owes  more 
to  you  than  he'll  ever  be  able  to  pay." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that, — yet,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If 
things  were  squared  up  between  Prue  and  the  boy  and  me,  I  don't 
know  exactly  how  the  balance  would  stand,  I'm  sure." 

"  Everybody  else  knows.  Why,  father,  you  could  not  have 
done  more  for  them  if  they'd  been  your  own.  To  be  sure,"  she 
added,  as  glancing  up  from  her  labor,  she  caught  a  darkening  look 
upon  the  doctor's  face,  "  I  know,  of  course,  they  seem  just  like 
your  own.  And  I  don't  suppose  there  was  ever  a  mixed-up  family 
like  ours,  that  thought  so  little  of  the  difference.  But  when  you 
talk  of  squaring  up  accounts  !  By  the  way,  father," — and  Mrs. 
Gair  laid  down  the  napkin  and  reached  the  sugar  for  the  doctor, 


Down  Among  the  Company.  25 

standing  by,  with  a  thoughtful  expression,  while  he  bountifully 
sweetened  his  tea,  —  "  now  you  speak  of  him,  have  you  ever  thought 
what  it  will  be  best  for  him  to  do,  one  of  these  days  ?  He's  get- 
ting to  be  a  great  boy.  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you  about  him 
when  you're  at  leisure,  sometime,  before  I  go.  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Gair  might  find  something  for  him  in  Selport." 

Mrs.  Reuben  was  scrupulous  in  always  speaking  of  her  husband 
as  "  Mr.  Gair,"  in  this  neighborhood,  where  he  had  some  thirty 
years  before,  run  barefooted. 

"  Time  enough  to  talk  about  that,"  replied  the  doctor,  a  little 
impatiently.  Then,  setting  down  his  cup,  resting  the  knuckles  of 
his  hands  upon  the  table-edge,  and  bending  forward  so,  for  a 
moment,  he  seemed  to  take  thought,  and  come  to  a  resolve. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  seriously,  after  this  instant's  pause,  changing 
his  posture  and  moving  a  pace  closer  to  her  side, — "  don't  speak 
to  Reuben  of  anything  of  the  sort ;  and  don't  talk  to  the  boy  about 
Selport.  There's  time  enough,  as  I  said ;  and  I  haven't  made  up 
my  mind.  At  least  I  shouldn't  have  spoken  if  you  hadn't  begun. 
But  Hilbury  has  always  done  well  enough  for  me,  and  I've  been 
in  hopes  it  might  do  well  enough  for  Gershom.  He's  all  the  boy 
I've  got,  you  know." 

Yes,  Mrs.  Gair  knew  now  just  what  she  had  wanted  to  find  out. 
The  good  doctor  had  no  thought  of  Gershom  Vorse  but  as  his 
boy.  "All  the  boy  he'd  got." 

Jane  Gair's  work  lay  straight  before  her,  and  then  and  there  she 
made  an  initial  stroke. 

She,  too,  held  herself  an  instant  in  deliberation,  the  while  she 
resumed  again  the  napkin  she  had  laid  down,  and  with  its  dry 
corner  wiped,  leisurely  and  solicitously,  the  damp  spot  upon  her 
dress.  "  O  yes,"  she  said,  half  absently,  as  people  do  when  they 
are  mainly  intent  on  that  which  occupies  their  fingers,  and  speak 
mechanically.  "  There's  no  hurry.  And  I  don't  know  as  it  would 
have  occurred  to  me  to  say  anything  about  it,  only  that  Gershom 
has  been  asking  me  some  questions,  now  and  then,  since  I  came 
up,  about  the  city.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  he  had  got  a  little 
restless.  Boys  will,  you  know,  There," — once  more  dropping  the 
napkin,  and  stroking  down  the  folds  of  silk  with  her  fingers, — "  I 
don't  see  as  I  can  do  anything  better  for  it,  now." 

"  Better  let  it  be,"  said  Huldah  Brown,  coming  in  for  a  fresh 
relay  of  dishes,  and  catching  the  last  sentence.  "  It's  grease,  I 
guess.  It's  easier  to  spot  things  than  to  clean  'em,  a  good  deal." 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind,"  answered  Mrs.  Reuben,  good-naturedly, 
"  I'll  manage  it  among  the  gathers,  and  it  won't  show."  And  she 
moved  away  into  the  front  rooms. 

"Jane  Gayworthy,  all  over!"  ejaculated  Huldah,  as  she  came 
into  the  out-room  again,  where  Eben  sat,  eating  strawberry  short- 
cake. "  She  allus  thinks  it's  no  matter  what's  done,  as  long  as  it's 
tucked  away  in  the  gethers,  out  of  sight.  For  my  part,  I  like  things 


26  The  Gayworthys. 

good  and  clean,  clear  through.  As  soon  as  they're  spotted  they're 
sp'ilt,  to  my  thinkin'." 

Eben  pushed  his  emptied  plate  into  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
tilting  his  chair  upon  its  hinder  legs,  made  a  quadruped  of  him- 
self so,  and  walked  himself  back  a  few  paces,  as  Yankees  know 
how,  till  he  rested  comfortably  against  the  wall.  He  had  been 
seated  within  six  feet,  or  thereabouts,  of  the  steps  that  led  up  into 
the  kitchen  proper,  through  all  the  foregoing  conversation.  The 
busy  handmaiden,  in  the  clatter  of  her  dishes,  farther  off,  had 
caught  nothing  of  it,  save  in  her  passages  to  and  fro. 

"  Huldy  Brown  ! "  said  Eben,  emphatically,  throwing  up  his 
arms  over  his  head  against  the  partition,  and  crossing  his  long  legs 
in  the  air.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is  !  I  don't  want  to  jedge  nobody  ; 
but  I  b'lieve,  as  I've  got  a  created  soul,  she's  thunderin'  sly  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 
PEEKIN'  AND  HARKIN'. 

WHEN  people  decline  peremptorily  the  discussion  of  affairs,  you 
may  be  sure  they  go  away  and  think  them  over  all  the  more.  An 
idea  like  this  suggested  itself  to  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair.  Her  hint  of 
Selport,  and  something  for  the  boy  to  do,  had  not  apparently  taken 
direct  effect ;  but  it  might  have  set  her  father  to  considering,  per- 
haps a  little  prematurely,  as  regarded  her  own  secret  wishes  in  the 
matter.  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  was  not  mistaken  in  her  surmise. 

She  had  set  her  father  to  considering.  Or  rather,  considerations 
which  had  long  been  passively  revolving,  as  it  were,  within  his 
mind,  at  this  word  of  hers  took  shape,  came  out,  and  would  be 
looked  at.  They  grew  to  definite  questions,  and  demanded,  sud- 
denly, decisions. 

"  You  couldn't  have  done  more  for  them,  if  they'd  been  your 
own  !  "  There  might  be  something  more  that  he  ought  to  do,  be- 
cause they  were  not  his  own.  Somehow,  after  Jane's  words,  this 
thought  pressed  upon  him  obstinately,  and  refused  to  evaporate 
itself  into  mere  vague  purpose  for  the  future.  He  finished  his  cup 
of  tea,  and,  turning  away  rather  abruptly,  walked  out  upon  the 
door-stone  where  Rebecca  and  Say  had  had  their  little  talk  together 
before  the  "  company  "  came. 

The  company — those  of  it  who  still  remained — were  gathered  at 
the  front  of  the  house,  within  and  without.  Laughter  and  merry 
speech  of  young  voices  came  around  from  the  pleasant  dooryard, 
where  the  moon  shone  down  upon  June  roses,  and  upon  human 
life  also  in  its  June. 

The  good  doctor  stood  musingly  and  listened  ;  looking  up  to 
the  still-night  heaven,  unrolling  the  same  slow-moving,  gorgeous 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  27 

scroll  as  long  ago,  when  it  had  been  blossoming-time  with  him  as 
well.  And,  standing  there,  he  felt,  rather  than  thought,  how  men 
change,  and  lives  pass,  and  the  great,  unaltered  skies  look  clown  on 
all.  God  laid  His  hand  over  him  so,  and  sealed  thought  into  action. 

He  scarcely  knew  why,  but  in  those  moments  his  "  mind  was 
made  up." 

"  I  won't  leave  things  at  loose  ends  another  hour,"  said  he  at 
last,  and  turning  back  from  the  doorway,  he  walked  straight 
through  the  long  kitchen,  passing  on  into  his  own  little  private 
room,  which  adjoined.  Here  he  found  his  good  friend,  Parson 
Fairbrother,  who,  after  having  done  his  social  duty  among  the 
company,  had  made  his  privileged  way  hither,  to  mouse,  as  he  was 
apt  to  do,  among  the  old  books;  and  was  at  this  moment  quite 
lost  in  something  he  had  lit  upon  among  the  pages  of  Burton's 
Anatomy. 

"  I  want  a  little  talk  with  you,  Parson,  if  you  please  ;  and  I've 
got  a  five-minutes  bit  of  business  to  do.  You  shall  take  old  Burton 
home  if  you  like,"  said  the  doctor,  closing  the  door  by  which  he 
had  entered — the  parson  had  already  shut  that  leading  to  the  best 
parlor,  to  exclude  disturbing  sounds — and  pushing  two  great 
leathern  arm-chairs  towards  the  table,  in  one  of  which  he  seated 
himself,  while  Mr.  Fairbrother,  turning  down  a  leaf,  carefully 
closed  the  volume,  and  came  forward,  in  compliance,  to  the  other. 

When  the  parsonage  party, — Mrs.  Fairbrother,  Malviny  and 
Gordon  King,  with  Miss  Stacy  Lawton,  who  had  heedlessly  let 
the  Gibsons,  her  next-door  neighbors,  go  home  without  her,  fifteen 
minutes  before,  and  who  now  availed  herself  of  the  Fairbrother 
escort,  "  only  for  as  far  as  they  went," — was  gathering  to  take 
leave,  the  good  minister,  after  considerable  outcry,  was  found  thus 
cosily  closeted  with  the  doctor ;  and  when  summoned  a  second  time 
by  Malviny,  sent  word  that  they  "  might  step  along.  He'd  come 
presently."  It  was  nothing  unusual.  Nobody  gave  the  circum- 
stance a  second  thought,  unless,  indeed,  the  watchful,  elder  daughter 
of  the  house. 

Presently — I  should  think,  though,  a  good  half  hour  after — 
Mrs.  Gair,  wondering  very  much,  and  waiting  to  put  out  the  last 
candles,  while  her  sisters  were  busied  setting  other  things  to  rights, 
heard  her  father  go  with  the  minister  to  the  front  gate,  and  say 
good-night ;  returning  directly  to  his  own  little  room  again,  whence, 
in  a  few  moments,  stole  out  the  deferred  fragrance  of  his  evening 

Pipe- 
There  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  revolving  in  various  brains  that 
night  in  the  Gayworthy  farmhouse.  It  might  have  been  late  tea- 
drinking,  or  strawberry  short-cake,  or  the  mental  stimulus  of  social 
contact ;  whatever  it  was,  people  did  not  go  straight  to  bed  and 
to  sleep,  according  to  their  wont. 

Mrs.  Vorse,  having  with  her  own  hands  set  every  precious  bit 
of  china  back  into  the  closet  sacred  to  its  keeping,  departed  up  the 


28  The  Gay  worthy. 

staircase  to  the  kitchen  chamber  with  an  armful  of  linen,  enjoin- 
ing on  Huldah,  as  she  went,  to  see  everything  safe  in  the  out-room 
for  the  night. 

Huldah  had  milkpans  to  wash,  and  bread  to  set  ;  but  she  sang 
to  herself  cheerily,  as  left  apparently  alone  in  all  the  lower  part  of 
the  house,  she  moved,  not  a  whit  loath  or  wearily,  from  kitchen  to 
dairy,  from  dairy  to  the  large,  lonely  out-room,  where  waited  her 
last  work  for  the  night.  She  sang  as  she  gathered  her  pans, 
whose  contents  had  been  rifled  of  their  cream  for  the  feasting ;  as 
she  wiped  down  sweet-smelling  shelves,  whose  purity  neither  drop 
nor  dust  might  defile ;  as  she  poured  away  the  skimmed  milk  into 
the  large,  tidy  tub  that  stood  in  the  far  corner  to  accumulate  the 
dainty  waste  whose  destination  we  know ;  sang  on,  with  a  sudden 
glee  in  her  voice,  as  she  carried  the  freshly-scalded  tins  out  pres- 
ently at  the  door,  and  set  them  gleaming  there  in  the  moonlight, 
catching,  as  she  did  so,  glimpse  of  a  tall,  stalwart  figure — not  raw- 
boned  and  shambling,  but  sturdy,  well-built,  albeit  Yankee  to  the 
vertebral  main-shaft — that  gathered  itself  up  from  leaning  over  the 
garden  fence,  and  sauntered  with  great  strides  towards  her.  The 
song  broke  into  a  laugh  as  she  turned  back  again,  ignoring  the 
presence,  and  said  to  herself,  with  a  spasm  of  fun  bubbling  up 
among  her  words  : — 

"  I  knew  it  !  I  was  certain  he'd  jest  go  and  be  redickl'ous 
again  !  " 

Eben  Hatch  and  Huldah  Brown  had  grown  up,  boy  and  girl 
together,  upon  the  Gayworthy  farm. 

When  Huldah  was  eighteen,  her  mother, — who  had  been 
"  brought  up,"  as  the  country  phrase  is  for  expressing  board-and- 
clothes-remunerated  service,  by  the  mother  of  Dr.  Gayworthy,  and 
who  had  married,  had  a  child,  been  widowed,  and  returned  to  her 
old  employ,  as  if  she  had  been  simply  put  out  at  interest, — Huldah, 
with  the  eight  years'  start  in  the  world,  standing  for  the  percent- 
age of  Mrs.  Brown's  ten  years'  absence,  and  accompanying  her 
mother,  to  be  profitably  "  brought  up  "  in  her  turn, — had  died, 
leaving  her  daughter  to  the  comfortable  hereditary  position  which 
was  practically  little  less  privileged  or  more  precarious  than  that 
of  a  daughter  of  the  house. 

Since  that  time,  Eben  had  had  frequent  turns  of  being  what 
Huldah  called  "  redickl'ous  "  ;  but  as  yet,  owing,  as  he  thought,  to 
persistent  ill-luck, — as  Huldah  secretly  believed,  to  "  special  inter- 
positions,"— he  had  never,  however  often  he  had  shamefacedly 
essayed  it,  got  the  step  beyond,  which  might  have  touched  the 
sublime ;  in  his  own  words  he  had  "  somehow  never  quite  made 
out  to  fetch  it." 

They  were  always  nervous  occasions  these,  to  Huldah ;  she 
wouldn't  care  to  have  them  go  a  hair's-breadth  further  than  they 
did  ;  she  hailed  devoutly  the  "  interpositions,"  which  Providence — 
usually,  it  must  be  owned,  through  the  instrumentality  of  her  own 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  29 

womanly  artifice — threw  in  ;  she  drew  what  would  have  been,  a 
long  breath,  if  it  hadn't  at  the  same  time  been  a  secret  chuckie, 
when  Eben,  looking  a  blank  surprise,  found  himself  suddenly  at 
the  end  of  his  opportunity, — like  the  sheep  fenced  in  with  such  a 
crooked  art,  that  when  he  had  fairly,  as  he  thought,  jumped  the 
enclosure,  he  found  himself  back  upon  the  same  side, — and  the 
danger  was  for  that  time  over.  Nevertheless,  at  due  intervals, 
she  was  best  pleased  after  all  that  the  peril  should  recur.  If  Eben 
hadn't  now  and  then  been  "  redickl'ous  "  at  home,  there  would 
have  been  no  knowing  that  he  wasn't  redickl'ous- -nay,  even 
achieving  the  sublime — elsewhere. 

So  Huldah  drew  herself  back  out  of  the  moonlight,  with  an  in- 
stinct of  shunning  any  over-sentimental  accessories,  and  disap- 
peared down  the  trap  stairway  to  the  cellar,  for  the  jug  of  yeast,  as 
Eben  stepped  over  the  threshold. 

"You  there  ?"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  emerged  again  from 
below,  and  found  him  just  where  she  knew  he  would  be,  waiting 
in  the  night-shine  at  the  open  door. 

"Yes.  I'm  here,  Huldy.  Jest  come  an'  look  at  the  moon!  of 
all  the  June  nights  I  ever  see,  this  is  the  crowner  !  " 

Huldah  understood  him  and  his  moon-rapture.  The  heavenly 
satellite  had  precious  little,  in  reality,  to  do  with  it ;  the  same  old 
story  veiled  itself  so,  in  his  homely  New  England  dialect,  that 
Lorenzo  breathed  to  Jessica  out  there  in  Venice,  in  the  verse  she 
never  heard  of.  If  there  had  never  been  a  moon,  there  would  have 
been  lovers,  doubtless,  all  the  same,  and  they  might  easily  have 
found  something  else  to  talk  about.  What  they  pretend  to  look 
at,  or  to  speak  of,  is  no  matter ;  as  well  squashes  as  sunbeams ; 
the  subject  is  but  as  the  indifferent  third  substance,  in  chemistry, 
— thrown  in  only  that  the  others  may  unite  ;  the  thing  is,  to  bring 
the  two  souls  together. 

Huldah,  however,  eschewed  the  whole,  as  moonshine,  all  of  it ; 
and  taking  herself  away  out  of  its  perilous  gleams  walked  straight 
over  to  her  bread-pan  ;  remarking,  only,  very  unsympathically,  as 
she  did  so,  that  "  she'd  seen  the  moon  afore  ;  she  guessed  there 
wasn't  anything  special  about  it ;  at  any  rate  she  hadn't  time  to 
look." 

If  Huldah  once  got  her  hands  fairly  into  the  dough, — there  was 
where  Eben's  bread  would  be,  sure  enough ;  so  while  she  meas- 
ured the  yeast,  and  scooped  the  orthodox  hollow  for  it  in  the  flour, 
and  began  to  stir  it  in,  gently,  with  her  wooden  spoon,  he  ventured 
with  a  fresh  persistence. 

"  The  folks  out  there  in  the  front  yard,  was  tellin',  to-night, 
about  the  moon  lookin'  different  to  different  people ;  come  here. 
Huldy,  jest  a  minute  !  I  want  to  know  how  big  you  think  it  is  ! " 

"  You  great  gander  !  "  exploded  Huldah,  at  this  very  barefaced 
and  absurd  artifice.  But  she  glanced  out  of  the  open  window, 
nevertheless,  up  at  the  moon's  jolly  disc,  that  laughed  broadly 


3O  The  Gayworthys. 

down  upon  them  both,  through  door  and  casement ;  and  laughed, 
heaven  knows,  at  the  same  moment,  on  how  many  others  like  them, 
of  varied  place  and  degree. 

"  They  made  it  out,"  pursued  Eben,  not  a  whit  abashed,  "  all  the 
way  from  a  cart-wheel  to  a  tea-plate :  for  my  part,  it  looks  as 
much  as  anything  like  the  biggest  meller  punkin  't  ever  I  see  ! " 

"  I  can  find  something  that's  enough  like  that,  without  going  to 
the  moon  to  look  for  't !  ' 

As  pumpkins  are  not  ordinarily  abundant  during  the  strawberry 
season,  there  was  no  resisting  the  conclusion  that  Huldah  meant 
to  be  metaphorical,  with  a  dash  of  personality. 

"  Now,  Huldy !  I'll  give  in  that  you're  a  plaguy  smart  girl, 
'athout  your  goin'  on  to  hector  me,  that  way,  all  night. — See  here 
— do  you  b'lieve  all  them  stars  has  got  people  in  "em,  like  us  ?  " 

"  I  should  hope  not,  exactly.  I  guess  the  Lord's  got  his  hands 
full  if  they  have  !  " 

Huldah  would  neither  be  drawn  into  sentiment  nor  speculation  ; 
she  was  bent,  to-night,  upon  the  purely  practical  ;  this  was  plain 
from  the  way  in  which  she  plumped  her  capable  hands  into  the 
pan,  and  began  the  sort  of  calisthenics  that  had  developed  to  their 
comely  proportions  the  not  ungraceful  limbs  whose  drapery, 
tucked  up  to  the  shoulders,  displayed  smooth-curving  outlines  that 
many  a  city  belle,  with  a  two-pronged  elbow,  might  have  looked 
upon  in  a  sickening  of  envy.  Eben  must  choose  a  shorter  road  to 
his  object,  than  all  the  way  around  among  the  constellations. 

"  Huldy ! "  began  again  the  long-suffering  wooer,  approaching 
shyly  the  table  at  which,  not  devoid  of  a  coquettish  consciousness, 
Huldah  tossed,  and  doubled,  and  patted  and  punched  the  wheaten 
mass  that  gave — and  nothing,  if  you  knew,  gives  better — oppor- 
tunity for  such  varied  charm  of  attitude, — "you  air  a  master  hand 
at  makin'  bread,  that's  a  fact !  and  as  to  stawberry  short-cake ! 
I'll  be — buttered — if  ever  I  ate  such  a  one  as  that  was  to-night  ! " 

"  Seems  to  me  everything  suits  with  you,  just  now, — from  moon- 
shine down." 

(Ah,  Huldah  !  that  was  a  very  badly  played  card.  Eben  had 
his  trump  all  ready  for  that.  He  would  have  been  obtuser,  other- 
wise, than  ever  yet  Yankee  lover  was.) 

"  Yes,  Huldah, — "  and  he  came  as  close  as  the  now  very  vigor- 
ously busy  elbows  would  let  him,  and  his  voice  lowered  a  tone, 
and  deepened  with  true  feeling  that  struggled  into  homely  expres- 
sion,— "  I'm  pretty  well  suited  !  I  only  wish— everybody  else  was  ! 
— Don't  you  think — 

I  hold  that  he  was  doing  it  very  cleverly,  now.  He  would  have 
grown  eloquent  presently ;  truth  and  passion,  let  them  once  get 
utterance,  can  be  nothing  else.  But  there  came  an  interposition, 
as  usual.  Huldah  was  saved  the  necessity  of  thinking.  There 
came  a  tread  across  the  kitchen  within,  and  the  tall  figure  of  Dr. 
Gayworthy,  in  gown  and  slippers,  appeared  upon  the  upper  step  at 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  31 

the  doorway.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  candle  that  had  been  blown 
out. 

"  Things  air  overruled,  certin,"  Huldah  breathed  to  herself,  as 
Eben  precipitately  made  his  way  to  the  outer  door  again ;  throw* 
back  now  upon  the  apparent  comparative  measurement  of  spheres, 
cereal  and  celestial. 

"  Durn  it  all ! "  muttered  the  unfortunate  suitor,  nonsuited.  "  I 
never  come  so  nigh  fetchin'  it,  afore  !  New  I've  got  it  all  to  dew 
over  ag'in  !  Lord  knows  when, — I  don't." 

Dr.  Gayworthy  reached  his  candle  to  the  lamp  upon  Huldah's 
table,  and  borrowed  a  flame  therefrom ;  saying,  as  did  so — 

"  When  you  have  finished,  Huldah,  will  you  and  Eben  come  to 
my  little  room  a  moment  ?  I  should  like  you  to  write  your  names 
as  witnesses,  upon  a  business  paper  I  have  had  to  sign." 

"  Oh,  certin,"  answered  Huldah,  giving  her  ball  of  dough  a 
final  roll  and  flop  over,  and  smiting  her  palms  up  and  down  against 
each  other,  to  shake  off  the  flour.  "  Jest  as  soon  as  I've  washed 
my  hands." 

Very  much  flustered,  inwardly,  was  Huldah  at  this  summons; 
first,  with  curiosity  as  to  the  document  to  be  signed ;  secondly, 
with  the  thrill  of  importance  people  who  never  had,  nor  expect  to 
have,  any  personal  concern  with  papers  of  consequence,  are  apt  to 
feel  at  being  called  upon  to  make  valid  with  their  names  the  in- 
struments that  dispose  of  the  affairs  of  others  ;  thirdly,  at  the 
thought  of  the  two  names  required  in  juxtaposition  ;  "  it  seemed  so 
redick'lous  ;  jest  as  if  they  was  bindin'  themselves  to  something, 
together." 

She  had  time  to  think  all  this,  as  she  washed  her  hands  and 
let  down  her  sleeves,  and  Dr.  Gayworthy,  setting  down  the  lighted 
candle,  followed  Eben  out  into  the  moonlight,  to  make  sure  of 
him,  and  to  say  something  about  the  next  day's  mowing. 

There  had  been  time,  also,  for  certain  other  things  to  be  thought 
and  done,  elsewhere. 

The  excitement  she  had  had,  and  the  strawberry  short-cake  she 
had  eaten,  had  made  little  Sarah  Gair  restless  to-night.  So  she 
had  tossings  and  dreams  and  starts,  and  wakings ;  and  at  ten 
o'clock  she  roused,  agitatedly,  from  a  fearful  vision, — of  a  horse's 
head  without  any  body,  that  came  in  at  the  windows  and  chased 
her  about  the  house,  till  her  feet  struggled  vainly  to  move,  and  she 
stood  paralyzed,  with  his  hot  breath  pouring  close  upon  her,  and 
enveloping  her, — to  find  her  mother  standing  by  the  open  sash, 
where  nothing  worse  came  in  than  the  sweet  night  gleam,  and  the 
warm  southwest  sighs  of  June. 

Mrs.  Gair  was  thinking,  No,  —  not  thinking,  purely  ;  for 
thinking  is  a  good  thing.  Worrying,  scheming,  wishing,  antici- 
pating,— which  half  that  we  call  thinking  really  is, — may  be  very 
different  things  ;  very  far  from  good  in  themselves  or  likely  to  work 
good  when  they  ripen  into  action.  This  is  the  sort  of  "  taking 


32  The  Gayworthys. 

thought,"  that  we  are  warned  against.  Mrs.  Gair  would  better 
have  gone  to  bed,  and  said  her  prayer  for  forgiveness,  and  deliver- 
ance, and  daily  bread,  and  left  the  details  she  was  anxious  about  to 
the  Knowledge  and  the  Power  that  were  beyond  her  own,  than 
have  stood  there  in  the  beauty  of  that  summer  night,  striving 
selfishly  to  conjecture  and  to  plan. 

What  was  there,  you  may  wonder,  for  her  to  conjecture  and  to 
plan  about  ?  Here  was  no  lordly  inheritance,  whose  bestowal  was 
a  question  for  the  forethought  and  competition  of  long  years  ;  that 
might  rationally,  according  to  the  common  acceptance  of  human 
nature,  suggest  motive  for  rivalry,  and  strategy  and  craft.  Here 
was  only  a  plain  New  England  homestead,  and  the  property  re- 
sulting from  the  thrift  and  industry  that  had  held  sway  through 
a  couple  of  generations,  in  which  father  and  son,  worthy  and  in- 
telligent farmer-physicians,  had  done  simple  credit  and  worked 
steady  benefit  to  name  and  estate.  This  was  all.  Therefore  you 
need  not  expect,  O  devourer  of  high-flown  and  deep-laid  romance, 
to  find  in  these  pages  profound  mysteries,  diabolical  contrivance, 
unheard-of  wrongs,  and  a  general  crash  of  retribution  and  ecstasy 
at  the  end.  Yet  in  ever  so  simple  a  New  England  family,  there 
may  be  privacies  and  secrets  ;  there  may  be  conflicting  interests ; 
the  Tempter  may  find  a  cranny  wherethrough  to  whisper,  be- 
guiling souls  by  mean  motives  to  questionable  acts.  "  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  human  nature  in  the  world;"  and  it  isn't  all  over 
the  water,  where  there  are  lords  and  ladies,  and  manorial  estates  ; 
for  upwards  of  two  centuries  it  has  been  growing  in  these  New 
England  hills,  and  bringing  forth  fruit  after  its  kind.  Besides, 
even  among  the  granite,  gold  does  gather;  and  the  well-harvested 
results  of  two  careful  lives  may  present  an  aggregate  at  last,  not  at 
all  to  be  despised,  even  in  its  distribution  according  to  a  law  which 
recognizes  no  closer  sonship  in  the  first  child  than  in  the  ninth. 

Also  I  have  never  noticed  that,  as  the  children  of  a  household 
go  out  and  meet  their  own  varied  fortunes  in  the  world,  there  is 
apt  to  be  any  greater  indifference  to  original  claims,  when  money 
comes  to  be  in  question,  with  them  upon  whom  success  has  so 
broadly  smiled  that  their  share  of  patrimony  might  seem  almost  as 
coals  to  Newcastle,  than  with  the  rest.  On  the  contrary,  these 
Newcastles  are  curiously  ready  to  take  in  all  the  coal  they  can  get, 
if  ever  a  little  ship  comes  along  and  brings  any. 

So  Mrs.  Gair,  with  her  husband  owning  four  or  five  vessels  upon 
the  high  seas,  in  thriving  communication  with  West  Indian  and 
South  American  ports, — holding  himself  as  a  merchant  of  con- 
sequence on  Change, — troubled  her  mind  here  at  the  old  home- 
stead, in  Hilbury,  during  her  little  summer  stay,  as  to  what  might 
befall,  regarding  it,  some  ten,  twenty,  who  knows  but  even  thirty 
or  more,  years  hence. 

And  neither  she  nor  little  Say  could  sleep  well  this  June  night. 

Say,  after  she  had  cried  out  and  called  her  mother  to  the  bed- 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  33 

side,  and  gasped  out  the  horror  of  her  dream,  and  been  soothed 
and  hushed,  and  laughed  at,  and  had  the  sheets  and  pillows 
smoothed, — got  over  her  fright,  and  grew  wide  awake,  and  wanted 
a  story. 

"  Tell  me,  mother,"  she  said,  "  about  the  earthquake  when  you 
were  a  little  girl." 

Every  child  who  has  a  mother,  has  also  certain  stereotyped 
"  stories,"  for  which,  at  all  sorts  of  incongruous  and  inconvenient 
conjunctures,  it  teases  her.  This,  of  the  earthquake,  was  chief 
favorite  among  Sarah  Gair's. 

So  Mrs.  Gair,  with  her  mind  running  upon  other  things,  told, 
mechanically,  how,  when  she  was  quite  a  little  girl,  she  and  Aunt 
Prue  were  left  by  themselves  one  winter  night,  in  the  house ; 
their  father  and  mother  having  gone  over  to  Deepwater  to  stay 
with  a  sick  aunt ;  and  how,  after  they  had  popped  corn,  and 
roasted  apples,  and  eaten  simballs,  and  told  stories  till  ten  o'clock, 
they  had  all  gone  to  bed,  and  to  sleep,  How,  long  after,  they  were 
wakened  by  a  strange  trembling,  and  a  noise  as  if  a  great  wind 
shook  the  house,  though  it  was  a  calm,  still,  clear  night, — or  as  if 
somebody  walked  about  heavily,  down-stairs.  How  they — the 
sisters — called  out  from  their  room  to  Serena,  Huldah's  mother, 
who  lived  here  then. 

"  And  the  china  rattled,  mother  !     You  left  out  that." 

Whatever  variety  children  demand  otherwise,  they  will  have  none 
in  the  telling  of  a  story.  Leave  out  a  phrase  or  a  circumstance  at 
your  peril. 

"  Yes,  the  china  rattled, — and  they  thought  robbers  were  in  the 
house.  And  Serena,  half  awake,  laughed  at  them,  and  told  them 
to  turn  over  and  go  to  sleep  again.  And  then,  in  a  minute,  it 
came  again — " 

Something  at  this  instant  actually  rolled,  or  rumbled,  faintly,  in 
the  house  below. 

"  Mother!"  cried  Say,  bolt  upright  in  bed,  "there's  one  now, 
Hark !  " 

And  something  surely  rumbled  back  again. 

'  Nonsense,  child !  Lie  down  again.  It's  only  Huldah,  I 
suppose,  rolling  back  the  great  table." 

But,  for  all  that,  Mrs.  Gair  didn't  quite  think  so  ;  and  after 
waiting  a  little  while  and  listening,  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  '11  go 
down  and  get  you  a  drink  of  water,  Say,  and  then  you  must  go 
to  sleep." 

"  But  you  haven't  finished  the  story,  mother!" 

"  Never  mind.  Let  it  be  till  to-morrow  morning.  I'll  finish  at 
then.  I  wouldn't  think  any  more  about  earthquakes,  to-night." 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  on  the  outside,  Mrs.  Gair's  going  down 
to  fetch  a  glass  of  water  for  her  wakeful  child.  If  sne  had  h»d 
nothing  else  in  her  mind,  she  might  have  gone  and  come  back,  aud 
been  led  into  no  harm.  As  it  was,  it  involved  consequences 


34  The  Gayworthys. 

afterward  she  would  gladly  have  gone  back  from.  It  is  the  double 
motive  that  makes  the  smallest  doing  perilous ;  that  takes  us  out 
of  the  track  of  Providence,  concerning  us,  and  puts  us  where  we 
have  no  business  to  be.  Single-heartedness,  alone,  goes  safely 
even  among  trivial  things.  If  it  had  really  been  but  care  for  the 
child  which  prompted  her,  Mrs.  Gair  would  doubtless  have  finished 
her  story,  and  gone  quietly  to  bed.  But  she  knew  that  people  were 
still  up  and  moving  below  ;  she  had  not  heard  her  father  go  to  his 
chamber ;  she  was  eager,  restless,  vaguely  uneasy ;  so  she  would 
go  down  and  get  a  drink  of  water  for  Say,  and  look  about  herself  a 
little,  as  she  went. 

The  staircase  upon  which  she  stepped  from  her  chamber  door, 
and  descended  softly,  came  down  to  close  within  the  front  entrance 
of  the  house.  On  either  side  at  the  foot,  opened  doors ;  that  on  the 
right  into  the  family  sitting-room ;  on  the  left  into  the  best  parlor, 
between  which  and  the  kitchen  was  the  Doctor's  "  little  room," — 
•office,  library,  or  study, — so  phrased. 

Mrs.  Gair  set  her  light  upon  the  lower  stair  and  passed  noise- 
lessly into  the  parlor.  Here  the  shutters  had  been  closed,  and  it 
was  dark.  The  door  communicating  thence  with  the  little  room 
was  ajar ;  the  aperture  showing  by  a  faint  gleam, — but  only  of  the 
moon. 

There  was  no  other  light  there  ;  and  all  was  stHl. 

But  voices  were  distinguishable  away  out  in  the  house  beyond. 
Mrs.  Gair  glided  back  and  took  up  her  candle.  She  would  just 
see  how  things  looked.  Without  any  definite  idea,  she  wondered 
what  her  father  could  have  been  about,  or  occupied  with  in  thought, 
to  be  kept  so  beyond  his  usual  regular  hour. 

Very  little,  it  seemed. 

On  the  writing-table  which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  lay  a 
half  sheet  of  paper,  folded  back  across  the  middle, — the  doubled 
edge  uppermost.  Below  the  fold,  a  couple  of  lines,  in  the  large, 
nervous,  handwriting  of  her  father,  were  visible  to  Mrs.  Gair. 
Possibly  only  a  prescription  or  a  bill.  She  would  see.  Jane  Gair  ! 
Are  you  in  the  line  of  Providential  orderings,  now?  Has  God 
or  the  devil  brought  you  hither  to  search  out  this  ?  In  five  min- 
utes you  will  hold  that  in  your  knowledge  which,  hereafter,  you 
would  almost  give  five  years  of  your  life,  if  it  might  only,  so,  be 
stricken  from  your  memory.  So  you  should  have  had  no  sin. 
Henceforth,  your  sin  remaineth. 


"  Signed,  this  night,  June  27,  18- 


"  BENJAMIN  GAYWORTHY. 
"  In  presence  of 
FELIX  FAIRBROTHER." 

Jane  Gair  turned  the  paper.     There  were,  perhaps,  fifteen  lines 
upon  the  upper  half  of  the  page.     Her  eye  glanced  over  them 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  35 

quickly,  and  a  sudden  (lame  flashed  into  her  cheeks.  Not  shame. 
She  had  not  begun  to  think  of  that,  though  it  should  surely  come. 
For  she  laid  the  folded  paper  back,  deliberately,  as  she  had  found 
it,  walked  out  into  the  parlor  again,  blew  out  her  candle,  stood  still, 
and  listened. 

Doctor  Gayworthy's  step  was  already  heard,  recrossing  the 
kitchen.  He  re-entered  his  room  and  approached  the  table. 
Huldah's  true-poised  footfall  followed,  and  then  the  clumsy  tread 
of  Eben,  behind,  making  miserable  work  of  trying  to  walk  lightly, 
as  befitted  carpets. 

Huldah  moved  straight  on,  close  after  the  Doctor,  and  only 
paused  when  he  did ;  standing  just  behind  him,  leaning  a  little 
forward,  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  hanging  by  her  side,  the 
fingers  of  its  hand  rolling,  a  little  nervously,  a  fold  of  her  gown. 
Flurried,  but  alert ;  all  her  keen,  feminine  senses,  ready  to  com- 
prehend quickly,  and  do  creditably.  Eben,  less  eag^er,  more  bash- 
ful, fell  back.  He  took  up  his  station,  waiting,  just  beside  the 
door-post,  on  the  other  side  of  which,  in  the  dark  parlor,  stood  that 
other  figure,  keen  and  alert  also,  listening  at  every  pore. 

It  was  only  for  an  instant,  but  in  that  instant.  Eben  Hatch  had 
the  vague,  strange  consciousness  that  we  have  all  known  of  an  un- 
seen human  presence.  The  room  behind  him,  beside  whose  open 
door  he  stood,  did  not  feel  empty.  He  made  an  involuntary  step 
into  the  entrance.  Jane  Gair  shrunk  a  little,  as  involuntarily ; 
there  was  a  slight,  crisp  sound, — it  might  have  been  the  maple 
leaves  in  the  night  wind, — Eben  had  not  time  to  conjecture,  or  to 
recognize  the  unfamiliar  silken  whisper. 

The  Doctor  took  up  a  pen,  and  glanced  round.  "This,  you 
see, — both  of  you," — Eben  came  forward, — "  to  be  my  signature ; " 
and  he  rapidly  traced  over  his  own  bold  characters  at  the  right  of 
the  sheet.  "  Now,  Huldah,  your  name  here." 

Huldah  received  the  pen  with  a  look  of  shy  importance,  thinly 
disguised  by  an  air  of  matter-of-course  acquiescence,  and  carefully 
straightening  the  paper  before  her,  sat  down,  and  occupied  perhaps 
a  minute  in  executing,  in  her  handsomest  style  of  hair  lines  and 
bulgy  dots,  acquired  with  infinite  pains,  the  letters  of  her  name, 
which  had  an  appearance,  when  finished,  as  if  constructed  of  some 
minute  specimen  of  the  seaweed  which  grows  in  an  alternation  of 
thin  strings  and  leather  bubbles. 

Then  Eben  essayed  ;  and  with  many  slow  vibrations  of  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  accompanied  with  reverse,  or  balancing  motions 
of  his  rigidly  protruded  tongue, — grasping  the  pen  close  down 
toward  the  nib,  and  inking  himself  profusely,  accomplished,  duly, 
"  Ebenezer  Hatch,"  the  "  ezer  "  a  little  detached  and  raised  above 
the  plane  of  the  "  Eben,"  as  long  unaccustomed  to  the  conjunc- 
tion, and  the  "  Hatch  "  rushing  headlong  down  hill,  as  if  ashamed 
of,  and  eager  to  get  away  from  both. 

Doctor  Gayworthy's  "business  paper"  was  signed.     It  had  be- 


36  The  Gayworthys. 

come  a  valid  instrument.  He  dismissed  his  witnesses  with  thanks, 
and  the  remark  that  there  would  be  no  need  for  them  to  mention 
what  they  had  done.  No  need,  truly.  They  knew  very  little 
about  it.  The  witness  who  did  know  all,  but  who  had  signed  no 
name,  stood  passively,  in  the  shade  of  the  room  beyond,  and  looked 
in,  still,  toward  the  light,  to  see  what  next. 

She  saw  Doctor  Gayworthy  turn  from  the  table,  folding  the 
paper  as  he  did  so,  and  stand  with  it  in  his  hands,  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  as  if  in  deliberation,  before  the  fireplace.  Following  his 
movement  with  her  eyes,  she  noticed  against  the  quaint,  carved 
panel  above  the  mantel,  which  formed,  as  she  knew,  the  sliding 
door  to  a  chimney  cupboard  but  little  used,  and  for  many  years 
but  rarely  opened,  her  father's  keys ;  of  which  one,  holding  the 
others  pendant,  occupied  the  keyhole.  Upon  the  shelf  below,  lay 
a  large  old,  embroidered  letter-case,  the  dim  colors  of  whose  cover 
she  well  remembered  in  the  childish  days  when  her  most  valued 
and  eagerly  sought  privilege  had  been  to  see  the  panel  cupboard 
opened,  and  be  shown  the  queer  old  relics  of  the  past  which  had 
been  laid  away  there.  For  years,  as  I  said,  this  cupboard  had  been 
rarely  opened.  For  years,  Jane  Gair  had  scarcely  thought  of  its 
existence.  For  all  her  life  to  come,  she  would  scarcely  forget  it, 
now. 

Doctor  Gayworthy  stood,  and  seemingly  considered.  Presently, 
he  took  up  the  letter-case,  from  which  the  faded  string  of  ribbon 
hung  unbound,  and  drew  from  it  a  packet  of  several  sheets  folded 
together,  which  he  held  and  turned,  hesitatingly,  in  his  hand. 

"  '  Such  share  and  privilege  as  would  so  fall,'  " — he  said,  slowly, 
to  himself,  in  a  half  audible  way.  "  By  will,  or  law.  Yes,  that 
certainly  secures  it  all.  And  if  things  should  happen  backward, 
and  I  should  change  my  mind,  its  only  this  slip  of  paper,  and  the 
other  would  still  remain.  It's  all  safe,  for  the  present.'  " 

The  Doctor  spoke  these  concluding  words,  more  nearly  aloud, 
and  briskly,  as  one  settling  a  perplexity ;  and  changing  his  attitude 
from  the  limpness  of  a  momentary  indecision  to  the  muscular  up- 
gathering  of  satisfied  and  assured  purpose,  replaced  the  packet, 
slipping  in  behind  it,  the  thinly-folded  and  just-written  sheet,  tied 
up  the  case,  and  putting  his  thumb  against  a  carved  projection  of 
the  panel-door,  rolled  it  back,  and  laid  all  carefully  away  upon  a 
shelf  within. 

Jane  Gair  took  advantage  of  the  sliding  of  the  somewhat  pon- 
derous and  unwilling  door,  to  effect  her  escape  unheard. 

"  All  safe  for  the  present,"  repeated  the  doctor,  softly,  as  he 
turned  the  lock,  and  put  the  keys  in  his  pocket. 

For  the  present.  Yes.  But  that  paper,  just  written,  is  to  lie 
there,  unseen,  for  seventeen  years. 

And,  meanwhile,  many  things  will  have  happened. 

Huldah  had  gone,  upon  being  dismissed,  straight  out,  as  she 
had  come  straight  in ;  crossed  the  great  kitchen,  and  passed  down 


Peekin'  and  Harkin'.  37 

into  the  out-room,  to  put  away  the  few  utensils  she  had  had  about 
in  her  bread-making. 

Eben  stopped  in  the  great  room.  There  was  a  door  between  the 
fireplace  and  that  leading  into  the  Doctor's  study,  which  opened 
upon  the  passage — narrow  here,  behind  the  stairs — running  the 
length  of  these  two  left-hand  rooms,  to  the  front  door  of  the  house. 
In  through  the  fan-light,  and  side  sashes,  poured  the  full  moon- 
light. Eben  set  the  door  softly  ajar,  by  a  space  the  width  of  his 
eye  only,  and  applied  thereto  that  useful  organ.  "  If  there's  peekin' 
and  harkin'  goin'  on,  I  might  as  well  be  in  for  a  share  of  it,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  utter  silence,  in  which  Eben  be- 
gan almost  to  think  that  there  could  be  nobody  "  harkin',"  after 
all,  except  himself ;  but  then  came  the  heavy  rolling  of  the  cup- 
board door,  and  a  figure  passed  across  the  light,  and  glided  up  the 
stairs.  Eben  heard  also,  quite  distinctly,  even  above  the  other 
sound,  the  heavy  rustle  that  was  not  among  the  maples. 

"  The  Doctor's  a  little  deef,  no  doubt,  Miss  Gair,"  he  said,  to 
himself,  again,  with  an  emphatic  nodding  up  and  down  of  his  head, 
as  he  carefully  reclosed  the  door,  and  dropped  the  latch  noise- 
lessly, "but  I  kinder  guess  7  ain't,  and  I've  heerd  considerable 
to-night,  one  way  an'  another." 

When  Huldah  came  back,  he  said  not  a  word  of  this  ;  but  human- 
wise  must  have  one  upon  the  transaction  of  the  night,  so  far  as 
they  had  both  participated  in  it.  I  say,  human-wise ;  for,  assert 
as  you  will,  curiosity  is  neither  male  nor  female,  but  belongs  to  the 
race.  In  a  case  like  this,  where  the  two  are  concerned,  let  the 
woman  but  hold  her  peace  for  awhile,  and  see,  then,  if  the  man 
don't  speak ! 

"  I  wonder  if  that  air  could  'a  ben  anything  about  the  property, 
now  !  'Twarn't  a  will,  think, — was  it,  Huldy  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  benighted  ignorance,  Eben,  no  !  Why,  there  warn't 
half  room  for  a  will.  'Twarn't  but  a  half  sheet  of  paper  writ  on 
one  side  ;  and  we  put  our  names  right  in  the  middle  o'  that.  I've 
seen  wills  afore  now,  Eben.  Twice.  And  I  can  tell  you  it  takes 
an  awful  sight  o'  words  to  make  one.  It's  jest  like  the  House  that 
Jack  built.  Whenever  they  say  anything  new,  they  have  to  begin 
and  say  the  rest  all  over  ag'in  ;  so't  you'd  think  you'd  never  get 
to  the  end  on't.  Besides,  the  Doctor's  made  his  will,  long  ago. 
He  altered  it  over  jest  after  Ben  died.  My  mother  was  knowin* 
to  it.  No, — 'twarn't  a  will,  nor  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  may 
make  your  mind  easy  about  that.  Most  like  'twas  only  some  little 
church  business,  'twixt  him  and  the  Parson." 

"  Well,"  said  Eben,  slowly,  leaning  his  elbow  against  the  kitchen 
mantel,  and  availing  himself  of  leverage  so  obtained  to  scratch  his 

head  effectively, — "  I — don't — know  !  maybe  its  a what's  name  ! 

A thunder  !  I  know  well  enough  what  the  word  is,  only  I 

can't  fetch  it  1  Something  that's  second  thoughts  to  a  will.  They 


3  8  The  Gayworthys. 

string  on  a  dozen  of  'em,  sometimes.  You  see,  when  they  get  the 
kite  all  framed  and  prepared,  they  begin,  then,  on  the  tail ;  and 
they  can  put  on  jest  as  many  bobs  as  they  like  !  " 

"  Blessed  be  nothing ! "  ejaculated  Huldah,  lighting  a  second 
candle  for  Eben,  and  turning  away  with  her  own.  "  I  guess  there 
won't  have  to  be  many  bobs  to  my  kite-tail ;  nor  your'n,  neither, 
Ebenezer  Hatch ! " 

"  Mother !  "  cried  Say,  sitting  up  in  bed  again,  when  her  mother 
returned  to  her  at  last.  "  I  knmv  there's  been  an  earthquake  since 
you've  been  down-stairs !  I  heard  it !  " 

Perhaps  there  had,  in  a  way.  But  Mrs.  Gair  only  said  "  non- 
sense ! "  again,  and  bade  the  child  go  to  sleep ;  and  cautioned  her 
not  to  talk  about  hearing  earthquakes  to  anybody  else,  for  they'd 
be  sure  to  make  fun  of  her, — especially  Gershom. 

"  But  where's  my  drink  of  water,  mother?  " 

"  I  couldn't  get  it.  The  light  went  out.  You  must  go  to 
sleep." 


CHAPTER    IV. 
STACY  LAWTON'S  WALK  HOME. 

STACY  LAWTON  bade  Mrs.  Fairbrother  a  cordial  good-by  at  the 
Parsonage  door ;  and  even  bestowed  a  sudden  kiss  upon  Malviny, 
who,  glancing  up  in  surprised  inquiry  as  it  descended,  received  it 
upon  the  snubby  end  of  her  little,  freckled  nose.  Then,  hastily, 
she  held  out  a  hand  to  Gordon  King. 

"  Good-night.  I'm  so  much  obliged.  No,  indeed,  you  mustn't 
come  a  step  further.  I  shan't  be  a  bit  afraid,  now."  And,  as  if 
she  were  very  honestly  in  earnest,  she  turned  away,  quickly,  be- 
fore the  young  minister  could  reply,  and  took  the  start  of  him, 
resolutely,  up  the  road.  How  much  of  this  haste  and  determina- 
tion might  have  been  accounted  for  by  a  glimpse  she  got  of  Newell 
Gibson  coming  around  the  corner  of  the  cross-road  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  and  the  perception  that  his  approach  might  presently 
do  away  with  the  necessity  for  any  persistence  on  the  minister's 
;>art,  I  really  do  not  know,  and  being  simple-minded  and  charitable 
myself,  will  not  attempt  to  conjecture  ;  but  of  course,  Gordon  King 
•lid  persist,  and  follow  and  join  the  self-willed  damsel,  whose  trim 
little  figure  moved  off  so  prettily  and  positively  before  him,  in  the 
moonlight,  over  the  long,  steep  slope. 

Newell  Gibson  knew  better  than  to  overtake  them.  Besides,  he 
had  his  own  thoughts  to-night,  that  lingered  pleasantly  around 
the  little  brown  house  whence  he  had  just  come,  down  there  in 
the  cross-road  under  the  hill.  He,  too,  had  been  to  see  somebody 
home. 

"  You  needn't  have  come,"  said  Stacy  to  Gordon   King,  as  he 


Stacy  Lawton's  Walk  Home.  39 

reached  her  side.  "  It's  as  bright  as  day.  Doesn't  the  moonlight 
make  everything  look  beautiful  ?  "  And  she  swung  by  the  strings, 
as  she  spoke,  her  muslin  cape-bonnet,  needless  since  the  summer 
sun  went  down,  and  turned  her  bright  face  toward  him,  above 
which  the  night-gleam  touched  and  crowned  the  full,  graceful  folds 
of  her  uncovered  hair.  Truly,  he  thought  so,  then. 

"  It's  a  glorious  night,"  he  answered.  "  It  seems  a  wonder  that 
we  can  shut  our  doors,  or  our  eyes,  at  all." 

"  I  like  moonlight,"  said  Stacy.  "  But  the  stars  seem  awful 
when  the  sky  is  full  of  them.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever 
saw  them  so.  I  was  so  frightened.  It  was  when  I  was  a  very 
little  girl,  and  grandma  took  me  out  one  night  to  an  evening  meet- 
ing. I  had  never  been  kept  up  so  late  before ;  and  coming  home, 
they  blazed  down,  so  bright  and  thick  '  I  thought  the  Day  of 
Judgment  was  come." 

That  word  of  Stacy's  changed  the  tone  between  them.  It  pierced 
the  surface,  and  went  down,  however  heedlessly,  into  the  deeps 
that  lay  beneath. 

Gordon  King  believed  in  his  solemn  office,  and  in  the  things  it 
handled.  He  gave  no  look  at  the  pretty  face,  for  a  moment.  He 
felt  a  soul  beside  him  that  had  trembled  at  the  Judgment. 

"You  are  not  afraid  in  the  starlight,  now?"  This  he  said, 
inquiringly,  meaningly.  After  the  little  pause  wherein  the  thought- 
current  of  each  had  shifted. 

They  stood,  at  this  moment,  on  the  brow  of  the  long  hill.  They 
stopped,  involuntarily.  Below,  lay  such  a  scene  as  lies,  I  suppose, 
hardly  anywhere,  out  of  New  England.  Among  abrupt  and  pic- 
turesque heights,  whose  nearer  wooded  slopes  were  thinned  and 
smoothed  by  cultivation,  yet  whose  far  horizon  lines  bristled  every- 
where with  piney  forests,  untouched,  unthrid  ;  set  in  the  center  of 
the  great  landscape, — held  so  in  the  scoop  of  the  hills  as  almost  in 
the  hollow  of  an  Almighty  Hand, — the  few  white  farmhouses 
that  made  up  this  little  neighborhood  in  which  was  Stacy's  home, 
clustered  peacefully,  and  lay  still  in  the  moonlight  aro«nd  Gibson's 
Pond.  So  the  country  people  had  christened,  in  their  homely, 
practical  fashion,  a  great,  glorious  sheet  of  water  that  flashed  up, 
now,  its  flood  of  silver,  meeting  and  overbrooded  by  the  more 
ethereal  firmamental  flood  of  light,  that  poured  itself  down,  and 
rolled  and  gathered,  as  it  were,  in  a  huge  chalice,  against  these 
steeps  that  held  it  in.  A  lake,  which, — but  that  Hilbury  pond  was 
larger,  and  Deepwater  larger  yet,  and  that  every  village,  almost, 
had  one,  greater  or  less,  of  its  own,  between  this-and  the  low  lands 
of  the  sea-coast,  where  the  great  cities  buzzed  and  grew, — might 
have  had  a  name  of  music  and  grandeur,  and  held  itself  serenely 
here,  in  a  royalty  of  beauty,  to  touch  the  border  of  whose  robe  men 
might  make  weary  pilgrimage. 

"  Yes,"  said  Stacy,  falteringly.  as  they  looked  down  on  this  to- 
gether, "  I  am  afraid.  I  am  not  good." 


40  The  Gayworthys. 

If  there  were  art  in  this,  it  was  the  instinctive  art  whereby  one 
soul  draws  itself  toward  the  recognized  and  higher  sphere  of  an- 
other. The  child  bethought  herself  of  her  soul  at  that  moment. 
When  the  heart  is  stirred,  if  it  lie  at  any  depth  at  all,  that  which 
sleeps  beneath  must  feel  the  thrill.  She  believed  that  he  who 
stood  beside  her  in  this  glory  of  the  summer  night,  had  a  title  to 
come  closer  to  the  spirit  of  it  all,  than  she.  In  the  one  great  over- 
shadowing beauty  she  forgot,  for  a  moment,  the  little  coquetries  of 
her  own. 

Now  that  it  has  come  to  this,  you,  Rebecca, — saying,  "Thy 
Will  be  done  "  in  your  chamber,  that  is  like  a  shrine  for  the  purity 
of  the  thought  and  act  it  witnesses,  and  only  half  glancing,  in 
your  secret  maidenly  soul,  at  what  might  befall,  to  make  that 
Will  seem  earthly-bitter,  may  school  and  strengthen  yourself  as 
you  can,  to  bear  and  to  do  without.  Since  Adam  followed  his 
erring  wife  out  of  Paradise, — dearer  to  him,  doubtless,  then  when 
he  began  to  have  pity  for  and  patience  with  her,  than  when  she 
came  to  him,  faultless,  from  the  hand  of  God, — there  has  been 
more  hope,  as  to  the  love  of  man,  for  the  sinning  little  Eves  with 
the  taste  and  perfume  of  the  world's  apple  yet  clinging  to  their 
lips,  than  for  such  as  you.  You  are  too  far  above  him  in  your 
saintliness.  You,  who  do  not  tremble  at  the  stars,  but  who  bend 
ever,  in  a  sweet  and  holy  awe,  before  their  Maker, — who  need  no 
more  the  tears  of  a  passionate  penitence,  because,  in  your  noiseless 
life,  you  do  daily  the  work  that  is  given,  and  feel  daily  the  patience 
that  forgives  your  shortcomings, — you  may  not  rival  with  the 
spiritual,  any  more  than  with  the  earthly  witcheries  of  the  pretty 
unregenerate,  who  needs  yet  something  done  for  her ;  who  leans 
toward  a  human  help  ;  who  whispers  with  a  new-born  anxiety  of 
her  soul  and  of  her  sins. 

Besides,  any  sort  of  professional  dealing  of  man  toward  woman, 
where  there  is  beforehand  the  faintest  incipience  of  tender 
thought,  is  tolerably  sure  to  do  the  business  for  them  both.  There 
is  a  sentiment  in  the  one  which  loves  to  approach,  shyly,  the  mys- 
tery of  the  other's  strength  and  wisdom  ;  there  is  a  pride  and 
chivalry  in  the  other  which  is  stirred  pleasantly  in  the  consciousness 
of  extending  help  or  protection.  It  is  the  very  soul  of  the  whole 
relation  between  the  two. 

"  I  think  you  will  be,"  said  Gordon  King,  presently,  with  a  gentle- 
ness ;  and  the  thought  of  what  she  might  be — of  what  he  might 
see  her,  perhaps  help  her,  to  become — was  more  to  him  than  all 
the  beautiful  attainment  elsewhere.  It  was  only  human.  One 
loves  better  the  slip  of  green  one  cherishes  in  the  rooting,  than 
the  fair,  strong,  perfect  plant  that  flowers  already  without  one's 
help. 

So  they  walked  on  together,  down  the  hill,  in  that  light  of  sky 
and  water.  Two  or  three  minutes  more  brought  them  to  Squire 
Lawton's  gateway. 


The  Secret  at  the  Hartshornes'.          41 

"  I  think  you  will  be,"  repeated  Gordon  King,  as  their  hands  met 
upon  the  latch,  and  he  held  his  companion's,  for  an  instant,  with  a 
friendly  clasp. 

And  Stacy  thought,  very  honestly,  that  she  would. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SECRET  AT  THE   HARTSHORNES'. 

HUMAN  histories  and  events  go  by  periods  and  conjunctures,  as 
well  as  the  great  planetary  forces  and  systems.  All  are  under  one 
like  law.  This  night  of  the  27th  of  June,  which  passed  so  seemingly 
unmarked,  save  by  a  simple  social  gathering,  over  the  little  town  of 
Hilbury,  and  into  the  lives  that  revolved  together,  working  out  this 
story  that  I  write,  was  a  focus  wherefrom  radiated  much.  Here- 
after, years  may  be  missed  in  the  narration ;  to-night,  hardly  a 
moment  or  a  thought. 

Mrs.  Hartshorne  went  home  early  from  the  party ;  took 
"  French  leave,"  as  she  called  it,  making  more  bustle  in  doing  so, 
however,  through  explaining  to  every  member  of  the  family  the 
why,  than  could  possibly  have  been  accomplished  in  any  other 
manner.  But,  underneath  the  bustle,  her  good  heart  was  anxious, 
troubled.  She  satd,  that  "  Gabe  would  be  tired  after  his  day's 
sail,  and  she  wouldn't  wait  to  make  him  come  for  her ; "  that 
'•  father  had  a  headache,  which  was  why  she  came  alone ; "  she 
knew,  false-lipped  woman  that  she  was,  that  Gabriel  had  come 
back  from  Deepwater  before  she  left  her  home,  no  more  tired  than 
a  hearty  young  New-Englander  should  be,  after  a  day's  toil  or 
frolic,  and  with  no  thought  but  to  dress  in  his  best,  and  go  to  the 
strawberry  party.  But  a  shadow  that  was  coming  over  their 
simple  home, — a  fearful  something  which  they  did  not  name,  as 
yet,  even  to  each  other, — lifted  its  apparitional  finger,  and  stayed 
them  in  this,  as  in  many  another  hope  and  plan  to  come.  There 
was  a  secret  at  the  Hartshornes' ;  a  secret  surmised,  as  yet,  by 
none  but  mother  and  son  ;  but  which  should  come  to  be  more  than 
surmise  with  all  the  little  world  about  them,  as  such  things  do, 
long  before  they  would  acknowledge  in  words,  between  themselves, 
the  terrible  truth. 

There  was  something  queer  about  old  Mr.  Hartshorne.  He 
took  r.trange  fancies  now  and  then.  He  did  things  in  odd  ways, 
and  at  odd  times. 

"  Gabriel,"  his  mother  had  said,  as  the  young  man  came  down 
from  his  little  corner  bedroom  that  looked  out  toward  the  Gay- 
worthy  farm,  and  whence  he  could  see  the  flutter  of  a  white  cur- 
tain at  one  particular  window  of  the  doctor's  mansion, — he  looked 
bright  and  handsome,  to-night,  in  his  new  dark-blue  coat,  and  with 


42  The  Gayworthys. 

the  yellow-brown  waves  tossed  back  above  the  broad  brow  and 
beaming  blue  eyes, — "  Gabriel,  you  don't  care  no  great  about  the 
party  to-night,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Well, — no  ;  nothing  particular.  Why  ?  "  returned  Gabriel, 
forcing  down  heart  and  conscience  with  one  great  gulp,  and  hold- 
ing them  there  with  this  lie  that  he  laid  upon  them. 

"  Because,  father's  taken  a  notion  that  he  won't  go ;  he  says  he 
must  walk  clear  over  to  the  five-acre  lot,  to  mow  a  piece  round  a 
turkey-hen  that's  settin'  there,  for  fear  the  men  should  come  foul 
of  her  in  the  morn'n' ;  an*  I  donno  how,  exactly,  to  leave  him  to  go 
alone.  It's  kinder  pokerish  over  there,  and  he  might  cut  himself, 
— or  something." 

"  Well, — I'll  go  with  him,"  said  Gabriel,  slowly,  turning  to  go 
up-stairs  again  and  take  off  the  best  suit.  The  cloud  that  came 
over  his  face, — the  sudden  quench  in  the  beaming  blue  eye, — told 
nothing  to  his  mother  that  her  own  heart  did  not  answer  to  and 
explain. 

And  Gabriel  inquired  curiously  after  the  turkey's  nest,  and 
"  took  a  notion,"  in  his  turn,  to  walk  over  with  his  father  to  the 
five-acre  lot,  in  the  low  sunlight,  and  fibbed  again  when  he  said 
he  "  didn't  feel  much  like  rigging  up  for  a  party ; "  which  had 
been  true  but  for  the  last  five  minutes,  since  he  unrigged,  and 
went  his  way,  bearing  the  glittering  scythe  upon  his  shoulder,  as 
any  martyr  might  bear  the  weapon  of  his  sacrifice  ;  and  Mrs. 
Hartshorne  rendered  herself  at  the  tea-party  as  we  have  seen ; 
and  Joanna  had  hard,  disappointed,  bitter,  mistaken  thoughts, 
and  carried  them  away  to  bed  with  her,  and  cried  over  them,  as 
she  had  promised  herself;  and  of  all  possible  things  never  dreamed 
in  her  imaginings,  of  this, — that  Gabriel  might  haply,  be  some- 
how as  compulsorily  and  painfully  disappointed  as  she.  The 
best  reasons  for  human  conduct  are  often,  alas !  precisely  those 
which  can  never  be  given  to  them  who  demand  of  us  the  why. 
And  so  a  story  of  misconception,  which  should  not,  for  long,  be 
made  quite  clear,  began,  between  these  two.  So  the  threads  of 
these  lives,  which  seemed  about  to  be  caught  together  in  a  web  of 
joy,  were  raveled  apart  for  awhile,  and  floated  away  from  each 
other,  reaching  and  feeling, — unfastened  thrums, — into  a  hopeless 
void. 

It  was  a  good  two  hours  before  Gabriel  Hartshorne  was  free  of 
his  father.  The  turkey's  nest  was  islanded  with  a  fragrant  swath, 
— the  "  heft "  of  the  crop  noted  and  rejoiced  over, — the  tons  of 
good  timothy  and  clover  calculated, — a  circuit  taken, — in  a  dreamy 
loiter  by  the  old  man,  in  a  fever  of  impatience  by  the  young  one, 
— around  by  the  brook,  and  up  through  the  long  meadow ;  and 
then  there  was  a  delay  at  the  barn, — scythes  looked  to  for  the 
morrow  ;  Gabriel  sent  down  the  lane,  by  a  sudden  thought,  to  see 
if  the  bars  were  up  at  the  end ;  and,  last  of  all,  after  they  had 
fairly  reached  the  house  again,  a  fidget  about  the  lantern  they  had 


The  Secret  at  the  Hartshornes'.          43 

lighted  for  a  minute  in  the  tool-room,  and  Gabriel  must  go  back  to 
the  barn,  and  examine,  lest  by  chance  there  might  be  any  sparks 
about. 

By  the  time  all  this  was  over  and  his  father  composed  to  the 
smoking  of  his  evening  pipe,  the  young  man  was  tired.  Tired  in 
body  and  in  spirit.  Besides,  the  shoes  he  had  blackened  so  nicely 
were  all  unpolished  and  dusty,  now  ;  his  clean  wristbands  crump- 
led ;  the  feeling  of  freshness  and  fitness  gone  beyond  possibility  of 
renewal  by  the  changing  of  a  coat ;  the  hour  was  late,  according 
to  their  primitive  customs,  and  presently,  deciding  all  question  that 
he  might  else  have  had,  he  saw  from  the  front  gate  where  he  stood 
and  leaned,  thinking  gloomily,  his  mother's  stout,  comfortable 
figure  moving  homeward  in  the  mingled  light  of  sunset  and  moon- 
rise,  down  the  hill. 

"  Well,  Gabriel.     How's  father  ?  " 

"Inside,  smoking  his  pipe." 

"  You  look  tired.     Where've  you  been  ?  " 

"  All  round  the  lot.  He's  been  pretty  res'less.  How  was  the 
party  ?  " 

"  Elegant.  I  wish  you'd  a  been  there.  Mis'  Gair  was  as  fine 
as  a  fiddle ;  and  as  to  that  Joann,  she  does  beat  all  for  carryin'  on. 
I  never  see  a  girl  in  such  spirits  as  she  was  to-night.  It  kinder 
frightens  me,  too,  when  young  folks  begin  so.  They'll  take  such 
a  lot  o'  soberin'  down.  I  was  pretty  chipper  myself  when  I  was  her 
age." 

Good  Mrs.  Hartshorne  ended  with  a  sigh.  In  its  fleeting 
breath  exhaled  a  subtile  distillation  of  many  a  sorrow  that  had 
come  upon  her  since  the  "  chipper  "  days.  There  were  slabs  in  the 
churchyard  to  tell  of  some ;  there  were  care  and  labor-lines  on 
face  and  hands,  that  might  hint  at  others ;  there  was  something 
m  the  very  breaking  off  of  her  report  of  the  just  past  festivities, 
and  the  quickening  of  her  footsteps  toward  the  house,  that  had  to 
do,  as  Gabriel  knew,  with  an  unspoken  weight  that  lay  upon  her 
BOW. 

He  followed  his  mother  into  the  house,  asking  no  more  questions. 

Joanna  had  been  gay,  to-night,  then.  She  had  missed  nothing 
from  her  pleasure. — Well ! 

From  the  corner  bedroom  he  could  see  the  white  curtain  still  in 
the  moonlight.  There  came  a  light  that  glimmered  behind  it,  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  went  suddenly  out,  as  something  that  flared 
wildly  for  an  instant,  and  quenched  coldly,  also,  in  his  own  heart. 
And  night  and  stillness  lay  between  the  two  homes. 

O  God !  who  boldest  all  lives  in  Thine  own  bosom,  wherein  all 
are  quickened  and  commune  together .  what  is  this  space,  this 
circumstance,  which  Thou  hast  made,  that  can — ever  so  little  of 
it— part  them  so;  that  can  keep  them  so  unwistful  of  each  other, 
even  in  Thee  ? 

Sunday  came.    The  old  meeting-house  was  full  of  its  Sabbath 


44  The  Gayworthys. 

fragrance.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Did  you  ever  si«;  a 
great  while  ago  it  must  have  been,  to  be  sure — in  one  of  those 
family  inclosures  in  an  old-fashioned  country  church,  whose  space 
is  railed  off  in  roomy  squares,  and  smell  the  mingled  incense  that 
goes  up,  on  a  summer  day,  with  the  prayers  and  praises  ?  The 
tender  aroma  of  fresh  flowers,  held  here  and  there  in  a  hand  that 
has  gathered  them  just  the  last  thing  at  home,  or  on  the  way  ; 
the  odor  of  aromatics, — of  peppermints,  perhaps,  or  nibbled  cloves  ; 
the  lavender  and  musk  that  breathe  faintly  forth  from  the  best 
laces,  muslins,  and  ribbons ;  to  say  nothing  of  whiffs,  now  and 
then,  that  betray  spice-cake  and  simballs  and  sage-cheese,  stowed 
away  carefully  in  sanctuary  cupboards,  under  the  hinge-seats, 
until  the  "  nooning  "  ?  Whatever  you  may  think,  there  was  noth- 
ing disagreeable  about  it, — nothing  even  of  coarseness  or  dese- 
cration ;  to  long-accustomed  nostrils,  it  was  the  very  atmosphere  of 
the  Lord's  Day  ;  and  the  life-long,  subtile  association  helped  the 
people,  doubtless,  even  in  their  prayers. 

Little  Sarah  Gair  found  it  all  very  delightful,  contrasted  with 
city  church-going,  where  people  shove  themselves  into  narrow 
crannies,  and  sit  with  their  knees  against  one  board  and  their 
backs  against  another, — stuck  in  rows,  like  knives  in  a  knife- 
box, — compressing  the  body,  by  way  of  expanding  the  soul. 
There  was  nothing  Say  liked  better  than  to  go  to  meeting  in  Hil- 
bury  ;  to  sit  in  the  corner,  on  the  broad  window-seat  that  came  in 
so  as  to  form  a  commodious  place  for  two,  and  where  Gershom 
was  usually  her  companion ;  to  listen  to  the  full-voiced  village 
choir,  and  look  up  with  a  sort  of  childish  awe  at  the  row  of  men 
and  maidens  who  filled  the  "  singing-seats,"  and  bore  part  in  the 
solemn  service  of  praise ;  to  glance  from  group  to  group  of  the 
crowded  congregation,  and,  when  tired  of  bonnets  and  faces 
within  to  turn  eyes  and  thoughts  outward,  where  the  stone  slabs 
were  planted  thickly,  marking  the  more  solemn  congregation  of  the 
dead ;  to  walk  round,  quietly,  from  pew  to  pew  in  the  nooning, 
or  to  go  with  Aunt  Rebecca  into  the  churchyard,  and  read 
the  names, — it  didn't  seem  a  sad,  but  rather  a  pleasant  and 
beautiful  thing,  to  be  lying  there,  where  neighbors  and  friends 
came  up  and  walked  weekly,  and  talked  gently,  among  the  green 
graves, — or  to  go  with  Aunt  Joanna  to  a  neighbor's  house,  and 
eat  simballs,  and  hear  the  great  girls  talk,  which  was  pretty  much 
all  the  little  girls  could  do  on  Sunday ;  and  as  for  the  incense  we 
were  speaking  of,  Say  always  complained  to  her  mother,  when  she 
got  back  to  Selport,  that  it  "  didn't  ever  smell  like  Sunday  there ! " 

These  were  her  impressions.  Quiet  Aunt  Rebecca, — merry 
Aunt  Joanna, — pretty  Stacy  Lawton,  who  looked  unwontedly  de- 
mure to-day, — stout,  good-natured  Mrs.  Hartshorne,  and  Gabriel, 
who,  as  first  tenor,  stood  next,  in  the  singing-seats,  to  Joanna, 
leading  the  treble, — with  scores  of  others,  whose  hidden  life  it  does 
not  come  within  our  especial  province  to  trace, — had  theirs. 


The  Secret  at  the  Hartshornes'.          45 

Gabriel  came  late  into  the  gallery.  He  was  shy  of  meeting 
Joanna;  fearful  of  the  resentment  she  might  show  him  for  his 
apparent  slight.  He  encountered  something  worse  than  resent- 
ment. An  utter  unconcern.  Joanna  was  as  blooming  to-day  in 
her  "  cottage-straw"  with  its  blue  ribbons, — her  eye  was  as  clear, 
her  cheek  was  as  fresh,  as  if  that  "  cry  "  of  the  other  night  had 
never  been.  Her  shoulder  turned  not  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
line  of  his,  as  they  stood  side  by  side  in  the  opening  hymn.  Her 
hand  shrunk  with  no  disdain  from  the  touch  that  met  it  for  an 
instant,  as  they  turned  the  pages  of  their  books  to  find  the  tune. 
She  settled  a  little,  comfortably,  into  the  corner  of  her  seat  which 
the  narrow  passage  separated  from  his,  when  the  sermon  began, 
and  the  cottage-bonnet  just  shaded  her  face  from  his  sight.  After 
service,  her  "  how-dye-do,  Mr.  Hartshorne,"  in  answer  to  his  greet- 
ing, was  to  the  last  degree  tnsouciante ;  and  then,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  say  something  more,  she  caught  her  name  whispered 
from  behind,  and  turning  promptly,  yet  without  any  undue  quick- 
ness, responded  to  some  proposition  or  remark,  and  was  drawn 
away  among  the  girls,  and  down  the  left-hand  staircase,  which 
was  the  feminine  exit. 

She  went,  with  half  a  dozen  of  them,  down  the  hill  from  the 
meeting-house,  between  the  rows  of  poplars,  to  Deacon  Whit- 
taker's  ;  the  deacon's  daughter,  Carrie,  leading  the  way.  Gabriel 
stood  among  a  group  of  young  men  at  the  church-door,  and  saw 
them  pass. 

Presently,  they  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  large,  old, 
unpainted  house,  whose  great  square  open  porch  gave,  not  upon 
the  road,  but  upon  the  smooth  sloping  grass-plat  at  the  side. 
Here,  buzzing  and  fluttering,  as  bees  and  maidens  alone  know 
how,  they  clustered  and  chatted,  while  baskets  were  opened  and 
the  simple  nooning  meal,  that  needed  intervention  of  neither  knife 
nor  fork,  was  eaten. 

"  Where's  Stacy  Lawton  ?  "  asked  somebody. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that,  but  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  girls,"  said 
Joanna  Gayworthy.  "  And  before  it  happens,  too.  We're  in  for 
a  revival ;  and  Stacy  Lawton 's  going  to  lead  off.  She's  getting 
impressions,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  And  some  others,  too,  per- 
haps. You'll  see  'em  in  the  anxious-seats,  before  long.  The 
parson  ought  to  have  left  that  text  for  Gordon  King,  though." 

"  Oh,  Joanna,  how  can  you  ?  "  the  others  exclaimed,  and  laughed. 
The  morning  sermon  had  been  from  the  words,  "  Give  me  thine 
heart." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it,  when  I  see  how  things  go  on.  Relig- 
ion's so  interesting  when  a  handsome  young  man  comes  and 
talks  about  it.  Why,  poor  Mr.  Fairbrother  might  have  preached 
his  cheek  bones  through,  and  his  eyes  into  hollows  till  they  came 
out  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  nobody  would  have  been  the  least 
bit  anxious.  But  those  waving  locks  !  and  those  heavenly  eyes ! 


46  The  Gayworthys. 

and  '  sech  a  figger ! '  as  Sabiah  Millet  says !  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  the  sinners  can  be  made  of,  if  they  don't  come  under 
conviction !  " 

While  Joanna  spoke,  the  three  or  four  young  men,  of  whom 
Gabriel  Hartshorne  was  one,  came  into  the  dooryard,  and  passed 
the  porch,  going  towards  the  well,  which,  with  its  long  sweep  and 
wide  curb,  occupied  a  central  position  in  the  space  between  house 
and  garden,  not  so  far  from  the  porch  as  to  be  beyond  conversa- 
tional distance.  There  were  almost  always  girls  in  the  porch  and 
young  men  about  the  well,  in  these  summer  Sunday  noons.  Jo- 
anna, standing  upon  the  step,  facing  inward,  neither  paused  nor 
turned,  butjtalked  on  recklessly,  as  they  went  by. 

"  I  never  heard  anybody  run  on  as  you  do  !  "  cried  Eunice  Gibson. 
"  It  don't  make  any  difference  what  it's  about.  It  was  just  so  at 
your  party  the  other  night.  How  you  did  train  !  You  made  fun 
of  everything  that  came  up." 

"  Yes ;  Satan  entered  into  me.  And  I  don't  believe  he's  gone 
out  yet.  So  don't  set  me  going.  I  should  like  to  be  a  little  proper 
on  Sunday.  Here  comes  Mrs.  Prouty.  Her  umbrella's  always  up. 
She's  never  caught  in  a  shower." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  she  always  make  you  feel  as  if  you  were  out  in 
the  rain,  and  she  standing  under  cover,  chuckling  ?  She  does  me. 
Her  work's  always  so  dreadfully  sure  to  be  done  up,  whether  it's 
cheeses  or  salvation.  She  is  not  as  other  women  are.  There's 
never  anything  left  over  on  a  Saturday  night,  with  her.  Don't  you 
see  how  her  mouth's  primmed  up  ?  That's  as  much  as  to  say  the 
washing  and  mending  and  churning  and  cleaning  and  baking  are 
all  through  with,  up  to  the  minute,  and  her  soul  seen  to,  besides. — 
Mrs.  Prouty !  Where's  Eliza  ?  We're  going  down  the  Brook 
Road,  presently,  for  a  little  walk." 

"  Eliza  stayed  in.  She's  preparing  herself  for  her  Sunday  School 
class,"  replied  Mrs.  Prouty,  precisely,  and  with  a  tone  of  subdued 
self-gratulation.  Her  daughter,  also,  was  not  as  other  people's 
daughters  were. 

"  Wasn't  that  Christian  of  me,  to  give  her  such  a  chance  ?  See 
how  much  good  it's  done  her,"  whispered  Joanna  to  Eunice,  as 
Mrs.  Prouty  passed  them,  and  went  in.  "  We're  such  terrible 
creatures,  you  know,  talking  and  laughing  over  our  luncheon,  and 
going  to  walk.  And  it's  such  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  see  it !  I 
don't  know  what  some  saints  would  do,  if  there  wasn't  a  world 
round  them  lying  in  wickedness  !  " 

"  Hush  !  there  she  is  at  the  window  !  " 

Mrs.  Prouty  had  entered  the  deaconess*  sitting-room,  and  taken 
a  position  where  she  could  converse  directly  with  that  lady,  and  if 
occasion  offered,  send  a  few  words  also,  over  her  shoulder,  at  the 
group  upon  the  porch. 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  side-fire  began. 


The  Secret  at  the  Hartshornes'.          47 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  very  feeling  discourse  ;  and  I  do  hope  we  shall 
see  some  fruits  of  it.  But  it  seems  pretty  hard  to  make  any  im- 
pression on  our  young  folks,  somehow.  It's  in  at  one  ear,  and  out 
at  the  other,  with  most  of  "em." 

"  Might  as  well  be  so,  perhaps,  as  in  at  the  ear  and  out  at  the 
mouth,"  commented  Joanna,  in  an  under-tone. 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  some  mischeevous  influence,  that  undooes  it 
all,"  continued  Mrs.  Prouty  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  know  there  is  :  but  it  isn't  the  sort  you  mean.  Come  girls, 
let's  go  and  have  our  walk.  I  shall  say  something  out  loud,  pres- 
ently, if  we  stay  here. 

"  I  can't  bear,"  continued  Joanna,  as  the  little  party  prepared 
to  move,  at  her  suggestion,  "  to  be  put  into  a  dark  closet,  and  have 
somebody  continually  coming  to  look  in,  and  ask  me  if  I'm  sorry 
yet.  I  always  feel  like  saying,  as  I  did  to  my  mother  once,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl.  '  When  I  horry,  I  let  oo  know  ! '  " 

"  But  then  !  "  said  one  of  the  group,  timidly,  "  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  make  fun  of  such  things." 

"  Nor  I,  neither,  Abby,"  answered  Joanna,  quickly,  and  with  a 
changed  manner.  "  I  don't  make  fun  of  the  things  ;  it's  only  the 
way  people  behave  about  them.  It  isn't  real.  It  isn't  natural. 
When  folks  really  do  give  their  hearts,  whether  it's  to  God  or  a 
fellow-creature,  it  isn't  a  thing,  I  think,  that  they  run  round  telling 
about.  There's  only  one  concerned  to  know  anything  about  it." 

This  sudden  shifting  to  earnest,  and  of  such  outright  sort, 
threw  an  astonished  silence,  for  a  moment,  over  the  company. 
The  girls  didn't  always  know  just  how  to  take  Joanna  Gay- 
worthy. 

Whether  the  allusion  to  giving  of  hearts,  or  the  approach  of  the 
young  men,  who  now  came  up  from  behind,  as  if  to  join  them, 
suggested  the  next  remark  or  not,  it  came,  with  an  unintentional 
"  by  the  way,"  that  made  Joanna  secretly  wince. 

"  Why  wasn't  Gabriel  Hartshorne  at  your  house  the  other 
night  ?  " 

"  Sure  enough  !     I  don't  know.     I'll  ask  him." 

The  quick,  fine,  feminine  artifice  of  this,  Gabriel,  catching  the 
words,  could  not  discern.  He  took  them  at  their  surface  meaning, 
and  verily  believed  that  she  had  never  thought  to  miss  him,  or  to 
wonder  why  he  had  not  come.  She,  who  had  kept  the  whole  com- 
pany merry!  Man-like,  he  turned  off  in  a  clumsy  huff,  and  walked 
beside  Eunice  Gibson. 

She  put  the  question. 

"  I  came  home  late  from  Deepwater,"  he  answered  ;  "and  after- 
wards, I  was  wanted, — at  home." 

"  A  good  plan,  to  stay  where  he  was  sure  of  that,"  whispered 
Joanna,  as  she  moved  forward  with  her  companion.  This  was 
the  word  too  much,  which  women  are  pretty  sure  to  say  when 
they  try  to  cover  up  with  words  their  true  feelings.  She  bit  her 


48  The  Gayworthys. 

lip  when  she  had  spoken  it.  If  Gabriel  had  not.  been  already  get 
off  with  such  an  impetus  upon  the  wrong  track,  it  might  have  gone 
far  to  guide  him  upon  the  right  one.  But  men  always  do  rush 
away  headlong,  at  the  first  word ;  and  another,  sent  after,  drives 
them  forward,  rather  than  brings  them  back.  There's  where  we 
have  advantage  of  them. 

The  effervescence  of  Joanna's  sauciness  was  over,  however. 
She  subsiding,  the  little  party  walked,  in  a  new  mood  of  quietness, 
tinged,  perhaps,  with  a  slight,  half-recognized  constraint,  onward, 
down  the  Brook  Road  ;  paused  a  moment  or  two,  upon  the  narrow 
bridge,  listening  to  the  Sunday  song  of  the  busy  waters;  and 
then,  like  the  "  King  of  France  with  twenty  thousand  men,"  turned, 
at  her  lead,  and  "  marched  up  again."  An  evolution  which,  to 
them,  as  to  the  king  in  the  old  rhyme,  had,  doubtless,  its  own 
meaning. 

With  two  of  the  number,  it  had  at  any  rate,  its  own  result. 

A  word,  or  the  want  of  a  word,  is  a  little  thing ;  but  into  the 
momentary  wound  or  chasm,  so  made  or  left,  throng  circumstances  ; 
these  thrust  wider  and  wider  asunder,  till  the  whole  round  bulk  of 
the  world  may  lie  between  two  lives. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   DAIRY    FARM. 

"THE  world  is  so  full  of  other  folks,"  said  Joanna,  wearily. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  pleasant  garden-window  in  Rebecca's 
room.  A  great  cherry-tree,  full  of  fruit  and  birds,  tossed  its  wide 
arms  up  against  the  house-front,  and  almost  grew  in  at  every 
opening.  She  looked  out  into  its  green  intricacies  and  watched 
the  robins,  that  feasted  fearlessly,  even  when  she  reached  a  hand 
to  the  hither  bough,  and  gathered,  half  absently,  for  herself,  a 
dinner  or  two  out  of  their  crimson  store. 

Down-stairs,  the  house  was  shaded,  open,  clean  and  cool,  from 
end  to  end.  The  early  country  dinner  was  over,  and  cleared  away. 
Huldah  was  turning  cheeses  in  the  cheese-room.  Mrs.  Vorse  was 
taking  her  after-dinner  nap.  Say  and  Gershom  were  down  in  the 
garden,  on  a  great  rock,  over  which  a  plum-tree  hung.  Mrs.  Gair 
had  been  gone  to  Selport  a  week  or  more.  Say  was  left  there  with 
her  aunts,  until  September.  A  box  of  clothing,  with  books  and 
toys,  had  come  up  by  the  stage  the  night  before.  Among  the 
rest,  was  that  unfailing  childish  delight,  "  Swiss  Family  Robinson  "  ; 
and  for  Gershom,  a  present  from  thoughtful  Aunt  Jane,  a  copy  of 
Dana's  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast."  These  books,  and  Say's 
life-size  linen  baby,  kept  the  children  abundant  company  down 
there  on  the  great,  green-canopied,  granite  divan. 


The  Dairy  Farm.  49 

There  had  been  question,  among  the  sisters,  of  plans  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  Mrs.  Prue  had  said  that  somebody  ought  to 
go  and  see  Mrs.  Rockwood.  Mrs.  Prue  rarely  paid  visits.  "  Some- 
body" meant  the  girls,  of  course,  who  were  responsible  for  tbe 
social  department  in  family  affairs.  Dutiful,  compliant  Rebecca 
repeated  the  suggestion,  upstairs. 

"  We  ought  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Rockwood,  Joanna." 

"  Dear  me  !  and  her  third  boy!  I  can't.  I  never  know  what  to 
say  to  people  in  affliction.  Besides,  we  should  have  to  admire  the 
baby.  People  are  always  astonished  if  you're  not  fond  of  babies — 
and  peaches.  But  they  do  come  so  done  up  in  flannel ! " 

"  Dear  Joanna,"  said  Rebecca,  laughing,  "  don't  be  absurd.  It 
will  seem  unkind  if  we  don't  go  soon.  As  if  we  took  no  interest." 

"  Well,  maybe  we  don't ;  just  at  this  moment,  at  least.  Perhaps, 
another  day,  we  should.  But  people  take  for  granted  that  we're 
interested  all  the  time,  and  we  pretend  we  are.  And  so  we  have 
to  act  up  to  it,  whether  or  no,  and  hate  it  accordingly.  The  world's 
absurd.  And,  oh,  dear!  it's  so  full  of  other  folks  !  " 

Here  is  where  we  took  Joanna  up. 

Rebecca  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Dear  and  intimate  as  the 
sisters  were,  it  was  sometimes  a  puzzle  for  one  to  comprehend  the 
o.iidr.  Joanna's  moods  might  mean  nothing  but  absurdity  and 
waywardness,  or  they  might  cover  feeling  that  called  for  a  deep 
sympathy.  Rebecca  could  not  tell.  On  points  of  feeling,  Joanna 
never  would  be  voluntarily  communicative.  To  her,  strong- 
thoughted,  secret-hearted,  masked  with  an  impervious  whimsicality 
that  few  would  know  how  to  approach  with  earnestness,  the  world 
would  be  likely,  all  her  life,  to  seem  filled  only  with  "  other  folks." 

Rebecca  brought,  presently,  an  open  book,  and  laid  it  on  the 
window-sill  before  her  sister.  These  words  were  marked  upon  the 
page.  "  As  Thou,  Father,  art  in  me,  and  I  in  Thee,  that  they, 
also,  may  be  one  in  us." 

"  That  is  how  it  ought  to  be,"  she  said. 

"  And  just  how  it  always  isn't,"  said  Joanna,  leaning  her  head 
upon  her  right  hand,  with  the  searching  look  in  her  eyes  of  one 
striving  to  solve  a  problem,  and  gently  pushing  the  Bible  from  her, 
with  her  left.  "  And  these  pretenses  only  hinder  it." 

"  They  ought  not  to  be  pretenses.  Wherever  there  are  Christians, 
there  should  be  Christian  love  and  sympathy,  shouldn't  there  ?  " 

"  It's  no  use  to  talk  in  the  potential  mood.  The  present  indic- 
ative contradicts  it  flatly.  At  least,  among  the  Hilbury  Christians. 
Take  Mrs.  Prouty.  That  woman  aggravates  me  so,  with  her  per- 
fections !  Why,  the  rest  of  the  world,  you'd  think,  was  only  made 
to  be  an  offset  to  her  righteousness.  She's  so  faithful  among  the 
faithless,  and  always  in  such  a  small  way !  She  darns  her  stock- 
ings— Wednesday  night — on  the  right  side  ;  and  it  isn't  evangelical 
to  darn  them  on  the  wrong.  And  not  to  get  the  clothes  dried 
Monday,  when  her  wash  is  over,  is  nothing  less  than  Anti-Christ. 


50  The  Gayworthys. 

It's  mint,  anise,  and  cummin, — gnats  and  needles'  eyes.  There 
isn't  any  room  for  Christian  sympathy.  And  then  look  at  Mrs. 
Fairbrother ;  with  her  whining  ways  and  beautiful  submission  to 
her  troubles  and  "  chastenings."  Other  people  are  chastened  too, 
I  suppose.  But  she  believes  Providence  keeps  a  special  rod  in 
pickle  for  her,  and  doesn't  do  much  else  of  importance  but  discipline 
and  pity  her.  I'm  tired  of  going  about  among  such  people." 

Rebecca  stood,  now,  at  the  toilet,  brushing  out  the  soft,  delicate 
cloud  of  her  dark  hair.  She  folded  it  back  from  her  face,  and 
wound  it  into  the  usual  simple  knot  behind,  keeping  silence,  wait- 
ing for  the  querulous  mood  to  pass.  Joanna  sat,  listlessly  plucking 
leaves  and  cherries,  through  the  window ;  biting  either,  as  it 
happened,  indifferently.  Presently,  she  roused  and  turned. 

"  I'm  cross,  Becsie,  I  know :  and  wicked.  But  it  seems  some- 
times as  if  the  world  were  all  wrong.  We  must  do  something,  I 
suppose.  There  are  those  books  Jane  left  to  be  taken  over  to 
Wealthy.  She  always  manages  to  leave  that  for  us.  Let's  take 
the  children,  and  walk  over.  If  anybody,  but  you,  can  set  me 
straight  when  I'm  crooked,  it's  Wealthy  Hoogs.  She's  real,  and 
strong." 

"  Wealthy,  healthy,  and  wise,"  assented  Rebecca,  playfully. 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  wise.  What  did  she  marry  Jaazaniah 
for?" 

Down  on  the  rock,  under  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  plum-tree, 
two  other  little  lives  were  getting,  in  their  separate  fashion,  what- 
ever the  world  had  for  them,  to-day.  Say  had  set  her  doll  upon  a 
moss  throne,  in  a  high  cleft,  and  crowned  her  with  golden  butter- 
cups, and  built  a  bower  of  asparagus  plumes  about  her,  and  put  in 
her  hand  a  peeled  willow  twig,  for  a  wand.  This  was  her  fairy 
queen  of  the  grotto.  And,  mutely,  lest  Gershom  should  wake  to 
consciousness  of  what  she  was  about,  and  ridicule  her,  she  was 
performing  her  favorite  fairy  tale  of  the  Immortal  Fountain.  The 
asparagus,  tossing  its  feathers  of  green, — the  beans,  winding  their 
scarlet  blossoms  around  the  tall  poles, — the  growing  corn,  stand- 
ing in  stately  rows,  putting  forth  its  young  tassels, — these,  filling 
with  their  ranks  the  long  garden  upon  one  side,  were  the  fairy 
troops  she  essayed,  according  to  the  story,  successively,  to  pass. 
The  Immortal  Fountain  was  supposed  to  be  hidden  in  the  vine- 
covered  summer-house  at  the  farther  end. 

Gershom,  outstretched  upon  his  back,  lay  utterly  heedless  of  it 
all.  He  was  rounding  the  Horn,  in  the  forecastle  of  the  Pilgrim. 

Say  came  back  to  her  fairy  queen,  after  a  breeze  had  swept  the 
corn-patch,  and  refused  her  passage  by  the  crossing  of  its  blades. 
Gershom  at  the  end  of  the  chapter,  flung  down  the  book,  and  came 
back,  also,  from  far  Pacific  seas. 

"  I've  never  seen  anything  but  Hilbury  rocks,"  he  cried.  "  Say  ! 
how  does  the  sea  look  ?  Come  and  tell  me." 

According  to   the  spirit   of   the  story,  the   corn-fairies   should 


The  Dairy  Farm.  51 

unhesitatingly  have  lowered  their  green  blades,  the  next  time,  on 
Say's  approach  ;  so  readily  did  she  abandon  her  pantomime  at  the 
boy's  call. 

"  The  sea  ?  Why,  down  at  the  wharf,  where  the  Pearl  conies 
i:i,  it's  black  and  dirty  ;  and  you're  afraid  all  the  time  of  falling  in. 
i)ut  up  on  Harbor  Hill,  where  papa  takes  me  to  walk  sometimes, 
it  looks  wide  and  blue,  and  sparkles,  way  off,  up  against  the  edge 
of  the  sky.  And  you  can  see  the  vessels  sailing.  But  I  think  it's 
prettier  here." 

"  Poh  !  that's  because  you're  a  girl.  I'm  tired  of  hills  and  trees. 
1  want  to  see  the  sea.  And  I  mean  to,  sometime." 

"  Well,  you're  coming  to  Selport  to  see  us,  you  know.  And  then, 
when  the  Pearl  comes  in,  we'll  go  down  to  the  wharf,  and  get 
oranges  and  pineapples." 

"  I  don't  care  for  the  oranges.  But  I  want  to  see  the  ship,  and 
the  captain,  and  the  sailors." 

"  Well,  they'll  be  there.     And  we  can  sit  in  the  cabin." 

"  I  shall  go  up  the  masts.     To  the  very  top." 

"  No,  indeed  !     You'll  fall. 

"  I  shan't  do  any  such  thing.  Can't  I  climb  a  tree  ?  I  brought 
home  a  crow's  nest,  last  spring,  off  the  top  of  a  pine,  higher  than 
any  mast.  I  wonder  if  grandpa'll  let  me  go  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  will.     I'll  ask  him." 

And  Say  skipped  away,  past  the  green  fairies,  and  the  scarlet 
fairies,  and  between  the  whispering  corn-blades,  triumphantly,  and 
up  to  the  golden  sunflowers,  that  shook  their  radiant  heads  at  her, 
and  sent  her  back. 

She  took  up  Gershom's  book.  "  That  isn't  pretty,"  she  said, 
" '  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson'  is  nice.  Mamma  reads  it  to  me. 
And  I've  got  a  story  in  my  Girl's  Own  Book,  about  a  little  boy 
and  girl  that  went  away  to  sea  in  a  ship,  and  got  lost  among  the 
savages." 

There  was  ample  present  provision  for  Gershom's  newly  awak- 
ened craving.  Aunt  Jane  had  made  her  selections  well.  Yet, 
who  could  blame  her,  if  the  boy,  like  all  boys,  should  grow  rest- 
less, and  feel  a  longing  to  see  the  world  ? 

Aunt  Rebecca,  with  her  dainty  white  sunbonnet  and  large  green 
parasol,  came  down  the  garden  path  and  announced  to  the  children 
the  plan  for  the  afternoon.  A  walk  to  cousin  Wealthy's  was  the 
crown  and  acme  of  Hilbury  delights  to  Say.  Even  Gershom,  after 
a  little  balancing,  let  himself  incline  to  the  single  thing  that  could 
have  persuaded  him  away  from  his  sea-story.  Yet  Say,  after  all, 
of  the  whole  party,  was  the  only  one  to  whom  came,  unalloyed,  the 
perfect  joy  of  the  golden  summer,  that  day,  among  the  hills. 

Around  by  the  high-road,  it  was  a  long,  toilsome,  unsheltered 
walk  to  Wealthy  Hoogs's.  The  way  they  took, — down  Harts- 
horne's  lane,  through  the  wild,  ferny  pasture,  out  by  the  pond  side, 
and  around  its  margin,  to  the  opposite  slopes,  up  which  a  wood- 


52  The  Gayworthys. 

path  led  them  to  Jaazaniah's  hillside  farm, — this  was  purely  fair  and 
fragrant,  green  and  still. 

Joanna  kept  her  face  very  straightforward,  and  her  parasol 
lowered  carefully  against  the  side  that  was  not  sunny,  as  they 
passed  down  the  lane ;  divining,  somehow,  without  directly  look- 
ing, that  it  was  Gabriel  who  stood  high  up  on  the  loaded  hay-rig- 
ging out  there  at  the  left,  pitching  its  perfumed  freight,  in  mighty 
trusses,  through  the  great  barn-window.  The  footsteps  of  the 
sisters  fell  noiseless  ;  but  the  children  leaped,  and  laughed,  and 
shouted.  Gabriel  never  turned.  After  they  had  well  gone  by,  he 
paused,  though,  and  took  breath,  leaning  upon  his  fork  ;  his  face 
toward  the  way  that  they  had  followed.  Then  he  glanced  round, 
westwardly,  and  raised  his  hand  toward  the  sun  ;  and  then  set 
himself,  with  more  stalwart  strain  than  ever,  to  his  work  again. 

Down  in  the  edge  of  the  pasture,  the  Gayworthys  met  Mrs. 
Hartshorne,  among  the  raspberry  bushes. 

"  Well,  now,  I  declare !  You  hain't  called  in  and  missed  me, 
have  you  ?  You've  been  as  scarce,  lately,  as  eggs  in  January.  I 
was  telling  father,  last  night,  that  I  hadn't  laid  eyes  on  one  of 
you,  except  at  meeting,  since  Miss  Gair  went.  And — speaking  of 
meeting — I  guess  I've  got  some  news  for  you.  Parson  Fairbrother 
was  in,  a  minute,  this  morning  ;  and  what  do  you  think  he  says  ?  " 

"  Stacy  Lawton's  '  found  a  nope,'  I  suppose." 

"  How  came  you  to  guess,  right  off  ?  " 

"  I  thought  she'd  been  looking  for  it." 

"  Well,  yes,  the  parson  says  she's  been  in  a  very  interesting  state 
of  mind  for  some  weeks ;  and  he's  very  much  encouraged.  He 
thinks  there's  an  increasing  seriousness  among  the  young  people. 
But  that  isn't  all ;  though,  to  be  sure,  that's  what  we  ought  to  care 
the  most  about ; "  and  Mrs.  Hartshorne's  round,  cheery  face  length- 
ened a  little,  duly,  for  an  instant,  as  she  spoke,  but  sprang  back  to 
its  jolly  lines,  by  irresistible  native  elasticity,  and  lightened  with  a 
simple,  womanly  sympathy  and  delight  as  she  went  on. 

"There's  more  coming  of  it.  Only  it  isn't  to  be  talked  of  quite 
yet,  and  so  you  mustn't  tell.  But  it  looks  as  if  there  was  work 
ready-laid  out  for  her,  and  he  as  good  as  said  so.  I  shan't  mention 
any  names." 

"  O  no.  It  isn't  worth  while.  It's  been  pretty  plain  that  there 
was  one  thing  depending  on  another." 

"  So,  she's  made  sure  of  him !  I  knew  she  would,  before  she 
quite  committed  herself.  And  that's  religion  !  with  some  people. 
I  know  yours,  Becsie,  is  a  better  sort." 

It  was,  and  it  needed  to  be. 

Joanna  said  the  last  words  as  she  left  Mrs.  Hartshorne  and 
joined  her  sister,  who  had  moved  forward,  and  was  disentangling 
Say's  dress  from  the  raspberry  stems,  among  which  the  child  had 
plunged,  eagerly,  after  the  fruit. 

Rebecca  had  had  an  instant's  time.     It  is  all  we  need,  at  some 


The  Dairy  Farm.  53 

crises,  for  hiding  away  our  secrets  between  ourselves  and  Heaven. 
Her  sweet  face  was,  apparently,  unchanged,  as  she  turned,  now, 
toward  Joanna. 

"  We  must  not  judge,"  she  said.  "  And  perhaps  she  has  only 
had  given  her  just  what  she  needs  to  keep  her  fixed.  God  takes 
different  ways.' 

And  so  they  passed  on  ;  their  feet  following  the  same  track ; 
yet  one  of  the  twain,  from  that  moment,  entering,  silently,  without 
human  sign,  a  path  marked  for  her  only.  God's  way.  One  taken, 
and  the  other  left.  How  long  ? 

They  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  great  pond.  Away  off,  east- 
wardly  and  southwardly,  it  swept,  shaping  itself  among  the  hills, 
its  limit  untraceable  except  just  here  about  them.  A  light  rippling 
line  whispered  up  the  mimic  beach, — the  hill  they  had  just  come 
down  lay  behind  them  against  the  southwest  sky,  and  the  birches 
and  alders  that  fringed  its  base,  shaded  the  calm  water  and  its 
pebbly  margin.  They  always  sat  down  here  to  rest.  It  was  a  won- 
derful stillness.  Nothing  moved  but  the  lazy-lapping  water,  and 
the  tremulous  birch  leaves,  and  the  little  sandpiper  that  scampered 
along  the  wave-mark.  Even  the  children  could  not  begin  at  once 
to  play.  They  sat  down  upon  the  pebbles,  and  dipped  up  water  in 
their  palms  to  drink. 

Gershom,  his  mind  stirred  with  new  thoughts,  looked  out  upon 
the  shining  expanse  and  upon  the  blue  distant  hills  that  shut  it  in, 
and  wondered  with  himself  where  in  the  world  was  room  left  for 
the  great  sea. 

The  sisters  talked  no  more.  Each  soul  went  its  own  way  in  the 
quietness.  Only  Say  was  supremely  happy,  with  the  water  and 
the  sky  and  the  white  clouds  sailing  about  in  both.  Only  Say  had 
not  come  yet  to  look  further  than  things  visible,  as,  except  from 
the  fairy  lore,  she  peopled  the  scene  itself. 

Well,  that  was  all.  They  sat  and  rested  there.  And  after  fif- 
teen minutes  they  got  up  and  went  on  their  way  ;  and  neither  one 
knew  what  lines,  in  those  few  moments,  life  might  have  written  for 
another. 

They  went  half  a  mile  around,  to  where  a  pasture-path  led  up 
again — more  rocky  and  shaded  this  time — along  the  unfenced  hill- 
side of  the  Hoogs's  dairy  farm. 

Away  up  here,  apart  from  all  neighborhood,  in  the  little  red 
house  built  against  a  steep  of  granite,  lived  Cousin  Wealthy. 
Between  summer  and  winter — between  churn  and  spinning-wheel 
her  life  vibrated.  Her  husband  Jaazaniah  lived  here  too,  of  course. 
Whatever  may  be  to  be  said  about  him  will  say  itself.  If  Wealthy 
Hoogs,  "  hungry  for  books,"  full  of  keen  thought,  energetic  to  a 
pre-eminence  even  among  Yankee  notables,  had  lived  the  high- 
pressure  life  of  modern  society, — if  her  Yankee  "  smartness  "  had 
taken  a  purely  aesthetic  turn, — which  having  never  happened  was 
no  less  a  mercy  to  herself,  perhaps,  than  to  Jaazaniah,  she  might 


54  The  Gayworthys. 

have  discovered,  as  so  many  gifted  beings  seem  destined  to  do. 
that  there  was  something  unresponsive  in  her  sphere,  that  she  had 
not  found — I  am  half  ashamed  to  use  the  word — her  "  affinity  "  ; 
that  she  was  a  mismatched,  misplaced  woman.  Apparently,  she 
was  ;  yet  she  comprehended  nothing  of  this  jargon  ;  sne  had,  seem- 
ingly, poor  creature,  never  found  it  out ;  she  lived  here  simply, 
where  she  had  been  put ;  made  and  packed  her  butter,  wove  her 
homespun,  and  loved  faithfully, — and  forbearingly,  for  the  most 
part, — were  it  praise  worth  a  woman's  having  to  say  more?  the 
man  whose  name  and  home  she  shared. 

If  Wealthy  Hoogs  could  have  been  spirited  from  her  secluded 
mountain  home,  and  set  down  bodily  in  a  "  cultivated  circle," — 
face  to  face  even  with  such  a  one  as  soul  to  soul  stood  secretly 
her  counterpart, — I  think  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  them,  nor 
any  among  the  congenial  spirits  near,  who  through  fleshly  eyes 
should  behold  her  apparition,  would  at  once  have  recognized  the 
kin.  Perhaps,  for  the  strengthening  and  consolation  of  "  mis- 
placed "  existence,  in  whatever  sphere,  the  same  conclusion  might, 
in  its  behalf,  be  safely  reached.  It  is  quite  possible  that  He  who 
sets  answering  souls  apart,  shrouding  them  from  each  other's  ken 
with  unlike  exteriors  of  form  and  phase,  and  joins  by  circumstance 
them  of  less  correspondent  mold,  knows  most  clearly  the  fitness 
of  His  own  work,  and  the  fullness  of  His  times. 

Wealthy  was  a  spare,  "  long-favored  "  woman.  Her  pale  hair 
grew  high  upon  her  forehead,  and  could  only  be  adjusted  in  the 
straightest  of  straight  lines.  Her  rather  small  gray  eyes  were  set 
in  close  neighborhood  on  either  side  the  thin-bridged  nose.  This 
perhaps  added,  in  effect,  to  the  wonderful  keenness  of  their  glance. 
They  pierced  you  with  their  intensity.  They  seemed  always  pene- 
trating through  things  and  people,  to  Artesian  depths,  searching 
after  that  she  thirsted  for.  Sailors,  they  say,  who  daily  strain  their 
vision  to  the  very  earth-verge,  come  to  attain  a  marvelous  long- 
sightedness. Peering  out,  from  her  remote  isolation,  through  such 
avenues  of  thought  as  opened  themselves  toward  the  world  of 
things  and  thoughts  that  lay  like  a  dream  in  the  distance,  reach- 
ing her  spiritual  treasures  from  afar, — she  grew  to  place  all 
whereon  she  looked  instinctively,  as  it  were,  at  long  range  and 
focus.  So  she  got  into  her  face  the  expression  that  people  say, 
"looks  through  you." 

"  There's  a  great  deal  besides  common  smartness  in  Wealthy 
Hoogs,"  said  her  town's-folk.  "And  how  on  earth,"  it  was  not 
seldom  added,  with  Yankee  significance  of  incompleteness,  "  she 
ever  came  to  take  up  with  that  Jaazaniah  ! " 

They  found  her  to-day,  on  the  little  square,  open  platform,  that, 
by  way  of  stoop,  was  built  against  the  angle  of  the  house,  under 
the  shade  of  a  great  oak.  She  had  a  broad  wooden  tray  upon  her 
lap,  in  which  she  was  cutting  up  a  pure  white  mass  of  cheese-curd. 
Jaazaniah  sat  by ;  his  chair — one  useless  foreleg  gone — tilted  up 


The  Dairy  Farm.  55 

against  the  red  shingles.  He  whittled  a  stick,  and  whistled.  It 
would  be  time,  presently,  to  go  after  the  caows."  That  duty  im- 
pending absolved  the  interval  of  time.  Wealthy  chopped  on,  fol- 
lowing her  own  solitary  thoughts,  feeling  a  certain  habitual  com- 
fort of  having  him  at  her  elbow. 

Voices  first,  and  then  heads,  coming  suddenly  in  view  up  the 
abrupt  path,  brought  the  visitors  to  their  knowledge.  Then  there 
was  voluble  country  welcome,  and  "laying  off  things."  Say  was 
made  free  of  the  curd-trough,  and  pecked  away,  eagerly,  at  the 
dainty  white  bits,  like  a  bird  lit  in  a  seeded  field. 

"  It's  kind  of  an  extra  job,  to-day,  this  cheese,"  explained 
Wealthy.  "  I  don't  mostly  keep  such  work  about  into  the  after- 
noon. But  I  took  a  notion  to  set  it  after  I'd  got  my  butter  out  o' 
my  hands.  We  had  a  famous  churning,  didn't  we,  Jez  ?  " 

"  Eleven  pounds,  and  jest  as  yaller  as  gold.  Guess't  would  do 
ye  good  to  see  the  pats,"  said  Jaazaniah,  complacently.  "  Lucky 
ye  come  to-day,  for  Wealthy'n  me's  goin'  down  to  Winthorpe  to- 
morrow, with  sixty  weight." 

"Come  in,"  says  Wealthy,  proud  of  her  dairy,  and  especially  of 
this  new  churning,  as  a  brain-worker  might  be  of  a  last  successful 
poem.  "  It's  Lineback's  cream  ;  and  you  wouldn't  think  she'd  ate 
anything  but  buttercups." 

"  If  Wealthy' s  dairy  was  not  poetry,  it  was  very  near  it.  Right 
up  against  the  solid  cool  cliff,  that  formed  one  wall, — looking  out, 
by  its  single  shaded  window,  upon  a  rare  panorama  of  hill-pasture, 
and  meadow,  with  the  gleaming  pond  stretched  far  below, — 
redolent  with  a  mingling  of  the  cool  mountain  smell  of  rock  and 
moss,  and  the  fragrance  of  churned  cowslips  and  clover,  that  had 
given  up  their  essence  into  the  golden  rolls  and  pats  that  were 
ranged  on  shelf,  or  stored  in  boxes, — musical  with  the  gurgle  and 
plash  of  spring-water,  that  came  in  by  a  cleverly  fixed  spout,  and 
flowed  constantly  through  the  large  shallow,  wooden  receptacle 
wherein  Wealthy  worked  and  molded, — there  was  such  breath  of 
purity,  such  suggestion  of  all  delight  of  life  and  growth  that  cul- 
minated here,  as  no  written  word  can  give  the  feeling  of. 

Say  drew  long  breaths  as  she  entered.  "  I  should  like  to  live 
here,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  keep  you,"  answered  Wealthy  Hoogs,  with  one  of  her  long, 
asking  looks.  Say  thought  it  sharp,  and  shrank  away,  half  chang- 
ing her  mind.  In  this  little  hillside  home  there  had  never  been  a 
child. 

"  We've  brought  some  books  that  Jane  left  for  you,"  said 
Joanna.  "  She  would  have  come  up,  but  she  hadn't  time.  And 
it's  been  so  very  hot." 

"  I  know  it  has.  This  is  the  first  comfortable  breezy  day  for 
most  a  fortnight.  And  I'm  thoroughly  obliged.  It's  a  great  thing 
to  get  a  book  up  here.  Specially,  when  the  winter  nights  com* 
on.' 


56  The  Gayworthys. 

"  There's  something  among  them — a  book  of  traveler's  stories 
—that  we  thought  Jaazaniah  might  like." 

"  Maybe  he  will.  But  he  never  took  no  great  to  readin' ;  more'n 
a  chapter  in  the  Bible  of  a  Sunday,  or  the  newspaper  once  a  week, 
or  the  Almanac.  Sometimes  I  wish't  he  would.  It  seems  like 
goin'  off  and  leavin'  him  all  alone,  when  he  sits  here,  and  I  get 
into  a  book.  I'm  clear  lost  for  awhile,  that's  a  fact  But  then 
he's  always  glad  to  see  me  back  again,  and  that's  one  good  of 
goin'  away,  however  you  do  it." 

"  Don't  you  ever  read  aloud  to  him  ?  " 

'•  Well,  I  used  to  try  that,  now  and  then.  But  it  didn't  do  much 
good.  I  had  to  keep  nudgin'  him  up  all  the  time,  or  he'd  be  sure 
to  go  sleep.  He  ain't  one  of  the  sort  that  can  stand  bein"  read  to. 
We  ain't  much  alike  in  some  things,  and  I  suppose  it  isn't  best  to 
be.  He's  just  as  clever  as  the  day  is  long  ;  and  you  know  that  as 
well  as  I  do." 

Wealthy  finished  her  sentence  with  a  certain  sudden,  short  de- 
fiance, as  if  she  thrust  down,  with  averted  mental  vision,  some 
buried-alive  thought  that  lifted  itself  now  and  then. 

"  If  he  got  lost,  as  I  do,  there'd  be  no  knowing  when  we  should 
ever  come  across  one  another  again.  But  he's  a  kind  of  anchor  for 
me.  He's  always  right  there,  and  I  know  just  where  to  find  him." 

With  this  bit  of  wifely  philosophy,  Wealthy  led  the  way  out 
again,  toward  the  house  front,  where  Jaazaniah  whittled  and 
whistled  still,  with  interjectional  sentences  of  conversation  with 
Gershom,  and  glances  at  the  descending  afternoon  sun. 

"  You  might  think,  to  see  him  sittin'  there,  that  he  was  lazy. 
His  mother  used  to  tell  him  he  was.  But  I  know  better.  He's 
busy  thinkin".  He  isn't  one  that  tells  his  thoughts  much ;  but 
they  come  out,  once  in  a  while,  in  a  way  that  would  surprise  you. 
And  you  ought  to  see  him  at  a  thing,  when  he  once  gets  a  going. 
He's  slow  to  begin,  that's  all.  Come,  Jez,  make  haste  and  get 
the  cows  home,  and  the  milkin'  done,  while  I  get  this  cheese  into 
the  press.  The  folks'll  stay  to  supper,  of  course.  And  then, 
Jez,  what  if  you  take  the  boat  and  row  the  children  across  the 
pond  ?  " 

"  Jest  what  I  was  a  thinkin'  of,"  responded  Jaazaniah,  slowly, 
shutting  up  his  jack-knife,  and  coming  down,  skilfully,  on  the  one 
forward  leg  of  his  chair. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Wealthy,  triumphantly,  as  he  moved 
away.  "  He  always  gets  ahead  of  me,  after  all's  said  and  done. 
I've  got  into  the  way  of  always  feelin'  a  kind  of  care  of  him,  and 
remindin'  him  of  things  ;  but,  half  the  time,  there  ain't  really  any 
need  of  it.  I  suppose  it's  partly  because  his  mother's  memory 
grew  so  short  in  her  last  days,  and  I  had  to  look  after  her  consid- 
erable ;  and  when  anybody's  been  used  to  doin',— no  matter  what 
it  is, — they  can't  shake  off  the  habit  very  easy. — Do  you  know 
what  I  think  of  every  time  I  look  at  that  old  apple-tree,  over  there. 


The  Dairy  Farm.  57 

on  the  knoll  ?  I  do  have  curious  thoughts  about  things  sometimes. 
Well,  it  seems  to  me  it's  just  like  the  cares  people  have  laid  upon 
'em,  and  by  and  by  get  so's't  they  can't  do  without  'em.  You  see 
it  grows  right  out  from  under  a  rock  that  happened  to  lay  just  there, 
and  nobody  ever  moved  it  away.  In  the  first  of  it,  I  suppose,  it 
was  a  pretty  hard  chance.  But  it  crept  round,  and  climbed  up,  at 
last,  into  a  tree.  And  now  just  look  how  the  rock  over  its  roots 
keeps  it  balanced  !  Why,  if  anybody  should  pry  up  that  stone  now, 
and  heave  it  away,  you  can  see,  by  the  cant  of  the  whole  trunk, 
that  it  wouldn't  hold  itself  up  a  minute  ! — And  here  I  am,  stand- 
ing, moralizing,  with  the  cheese-tray  in  my  hands,"  she  cried, 
interrupting  herself.  "  It's  clear  I  want  something  to  hold  me 
down !  " 

It  was  pretty  clearly  suggested  to  the  minds  of  her  listeners  how 
this  want  of  hers  had  been  permanently  provided  for,  as  slow- 
moving,  literal  Jaazaniah  came  out  of  the  dairy,  his  arms  strung 
with  milk  pails,  and  took  his  plodding  way  down  the  path  toward 
the  barnyard,  wrinkling  his  brows  in  the  level-glancing  afternoon 
sunlight,  with  never  an  apparent  out-glancing  of  any  light  within, 
kindled  of  all  those  heavenly  shafts  illumined. 

"We  all  get  that,  one  way  or  another,  I  suppose,"  said  Rebecca, 
thoughtfully.  "  It's  well  when  we  can  see  the  good." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Joanna,  quickly,  "  I  can't  help  wanting  to 
give  the  rock  a  hoist.  And  I  think,  in  the  beginning,  somebody 
ought  to  have  done  it.  At  any  rate,  people  needn't  plant  them- 
selves in  that  fashion. — You're  just  buried  alive  here,  Wealthy 
Hoogs,  and  I  can't  help  saying  so.  Nobody  to  speak  to  month  in 
and  month  out,  except  Jaazaniah,  and  he  won't  talk  back." 

"  Maybe  I  like  that  best,  when  I  get  a  going,"  replied  Wealthy, 
with  a  touch  of  quiet  humor.  "  Besides,  there's  more  in  folks  than 
what  gets  said.  There's  all  sorts  of  hindrances  ;  things  don't 
always  seem  to  correspond.  It's  just  as  it  is  with  children. 
They  want  to  say  great  grown-up  words  sometimes,  but  they  don't 
dare.  When  I  was  four  years  old,  I  told  my  mother  once,  that  I 
wished  I  was  fifteen,  so's't  I  could  say  'probable.'  Clo'es  is 
considerable.  If  Jaazaniah  ever  does  come  out  more  than  ordi- 
nary, it's  on  a  Sunday,  when  he's  dressed  and  shaved,  and  gets 
the  rough  off  a  little.  I  don't  doubt,  if  he  wore  a  black  suit  every 
day,  and  kep'  his  hands  clean,  and  his  chin  smooth,  like  a  minis- 
ter, he  might  talk  like  one.  He's  got  a  soul,  and  thoughts.  It 
comes  out  in  his  whistlin'.  He  couldn't  make  such  music  as  he 
does,  out  of  nothin'.  You  never  heard  it,  nor  nobody  else,  as  I 
have.  Why,  when  we're  sittin'  here,  all  alone,  sometimes,  as  we 
were  just  now,  before  you  come  along,  he'll  go  on  so,  that  I  hold 
my  breath  for  fear  of  stoppin'  him.  It's  like  all  the  Psalms  and 
Revelations  to  listen  to  it.  There's  something  between  us  then, 
that's  more  than  talk. — No,  I  don't  care  what  folks  think  about  it  ; 
nor  I  don't  care  whether  it  ever  comes  out  any  plainer  as  long  as 


58  The  Gayworthys. 

we  both  live ;  but  I  know  I  was  no  fool  in  takin'  Jaazaniah.  The 
rough'll  come  off  sometime, — over  Jordan  if  it  don't  here, — and 
then,  all  I'm  afraid  of  is,  whether  or  no  I  shall  make  out  to  keep  up 
with  him." 

If  you  haven't  cared  for  this  little  passing  glimpse  at  Wealthy 
Hoogs'  life,  inner  and  outer,  it  has  been  very  easy  for  you  to  skip 
it ;  but,  however  it  may  be  with  this,  my  poor  presentment,  if  she 
had  come  to  you  as  an  episode  in  your  own  actual  experience,  I  am 
very  sure  you  would  have  done  no  such  thing. 

The  tea-drinking  was  such  as  could  only  have  been  had  in  just 
that  spot,  and  from  just  those  simply  hospitable  hands.  The  sun 
was  lowering  slowly  to  the  horizon,  lessened  everywhere,  in  those 
regions,  by  the  multitudinous  hills, — when  Jaazaniah  helped  the 
children  and  Aunt  Rebecca  carefully  into  his  little  boat,  and  put  off 
from  the  shore  at  the  foot  of  the  descent.  Joanna  refused  to  go. 
She  would  rather,  she  said,  walk  round  the  head  of  the  pond,  in  the 
twilight ;  and  there  wasn't  room  to  take  all  safely.  They  wouldn't 
get  across  before  she  should  come.  They  meant  to  have  a  row  up 
the  bend,  first. 

Joanna  Gayworthy  had  a  battle  to  fight, — after  her  own  fashion. 
She  must  have  it  out  with  herself,  and  she  must  be  left  alone  to  do 
it.  She  wanted  to  stand  up,  face  to  face,  with  this  great  blank 
future  that  opened  itself  out  before  her,  and  see  what  its  emptiness 
was  like,  and  grapple  with  its  phantoms,  and  put  them  down,  once 
for  all,  if  it  might  be. 

There  is  a  point  we  each  come  to,  once, — and  Joanna,  whether 
she  understood  it  or  not,  had  reached  it, — when  a  woman's  life 
rounds  itself  out  about  her  as  the  firmament,  and  in  like  manner 
resolves  itself  to  her  vision.  One  sun, — the  rest  a  thronging  hud- 
dle in  a  far  ecliptic.  Her  sun  had  hidden  itself  below  the  hori- 
zon, Night  was  teaching  her  the  secret  of  her  day.  Until  Kate 
Purcell  and  her  brother  had  come  to  Deepwater,  there  had  never 
been  a  thought  of  doubt  or  loss  to  prompt  her  look  up  and  discover 
whence  her  daylight  came.  It  lessened,  all  at  once;  she  turned 
her  back  upon  it,  and  could  find  nothing  in  the  whole  wide  horizon, 
suddenly,  but  sharp-eyed,  impertinent  little  far-off,  self-sphered 
stars. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  had  come  no  nearer  than  the  garden  fence, 
on  some  farm  errand,  since  the  Sunday  I  have  told  you  of.  Joanna 
was  fractious  and  unreasonable  ;  nobody  knew  why, — herself  least 
of  all,  perhaps ;  nothing  was  worth  while ;  the  world  was  full  of 
"  other  folks." 

She  had  longed  to  get  off,  alone,  somewhere  ;  there  had  been  no 
chance  for  it ;  Mrs.  Gair's  stay,  her  departure,  the  hundred  little 
put-off  things  that  had  to  be  done  to  bring  the  family  back  into  the 
ordinary  grooves  again, — all  had  teased  and  prevented  her  till  it 
had  become  unbearable.  Now,  she  -would  be  left. 

So  she  stood  there  by  the  water-side,  as  the  little  boat  passed 


The  Dairy  Farm.  59 

round  the  bend,  Rebecca,  with  her  calm  face  turned  toward  her  as 
she  sat  in  the  bow,  floating  away  into  the  placid  shadows,  and  out 
of  sight,  leaving  her  to  the  wild  solitude  that  hushed  itself  around 
her  into  waiting  silence.  How  should  she  know  ? 

Ah,  me  !  the  mute  histories  that  run  side  by  side !  The  hearts 
that  seem  to  touch,  whose  electric  currents  never  blend  with  the 
spark  of  inmost  recognition  ' 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  people  come  to  bear  their  lives!" — 
It  was  in  this  wise  she  began  the  fight.  "  A  whole  winter,  shut 
up  there,  with  Jaazaniah  Hoogs !  Ten,  twenty,  sixty  winters, 
perhaps ! — "  Joanna  gave  a  little  gasping  scream,  to  herself,  at 
the  imagination.  "  And  there's  Prue :  And  Jane  isn't  much 
better,  whatever  she  supposes. — And  I  wonder  what  I'm  coming 
to  ! — I  shall  have  Becsie  for  awhile,  maybe, — she's  all  I've  got, — 
and  then — somehow — she'll  slip  away  from  me,  as  she  did  just 
now  ;  she's  too  good  for  us,  I'm  afraid  :  or  perhaps  some  prowling 
missionary  will  come  along,  as  they  do  in  the  memoirs,  and  carry 
her  off  to  the  tigers  and  anacondas.  And  then  I  shall  take  care  of 
father ;  but  I  can't  keep  him  forever ;  and  Gershie'll  grow  up,  and 
go  away,  and  Prue'll  go  after  him ;  and  I'm  tough,  and  I  shall  live 
through  it  all,  and  grow  fat, — that's  what  it  turns  to  with  people 
like  me, — and  nobody'll  really  know  anything  about  it,  or  care  for 
me  ; — and  I  shall  just  be  '  old  Miss  Gayworthy '  for  forty  years 
after  I  shall  wish  I  was  dead  and  gone ! — Well !  the  world  must 
always  be  full  of  other  folks,  I  suppose  ;  and  I  shall  be  one  of  'em, — 
that's  all !" 

And  with  this  she  hardened  her  heart  fiercely  against  herself,  and 
walked  on ;  punching  great  holes  in  the  gravelly  path  with  the 
stick  of  her  parasol,  and  supposing  that  so.  since  she  no  longer 
worded  them  mentally,  she  put  down  thoughts.  But  they  kept 
seething,  confusedly, — the  something  in  her  short  past,  that  she 
would  not  look  at  or  acknowledge,  except  as  she  did  it  once,  to  her 
own  sudden  surprise,  in  the  involuntary  exclamation,  "  I  wish  I 
could  just  be  angry  enough  not  to  care  !"  mingling  and  alternating 
with  the  dreary  touches  imagination  laid  upon  that  picture  of  the 
coming  years. 

By  and  by — she  hardly  knew  it — the  harsh,  wild  fancies  began 
to  soften ;  a  furtive,  unshaped  suggestion  crept  in  among  them, 
that  other  lives  too  must  go  on ;  that  there  would  always  be  some- 
thing to  know,  and  to  think  of,  and  to  care  for,  if  she  pleased, 
however  secretly ;  to  be  true  to,  however  hopelessly.  That  lines 
not  identical  might  yet  run  a  great  way  parallel;  that  it  would 
be  hard  if  they  should  never  cross  or  coincide  ;  that  people  born 
into  this  world  contemporaneously,  couldn't  get  off  the  planet,  or 
into  another  generation ;  that,  set  at  first  in  propinquity  with  like 
local  ties  and  interests,  they  would  scarcely  drift  away  from  each 
other  into  utter  incognizance  and  separation ;  that  they  might, 
even,  grow  old  before  each  other's  eyes,  and  in  a  comfortable  friend- 


60  The  Gayworthys. 

liness ;  and  that  she  shouldn't  very  much  mind  being  "old  Miss 

Gayworthy "  if  only ,  and  just  then  her  thoughts  took  definite 

form,  and  flashed  off  to  Deepwater  ;  and  she  "didn't  believe  there 
was  anything  in  that  Purcell  story ;  they  were  all  off,  now,  and 
nothing  seemed  to  have  come  of  it.  But  why  didn't  Gabriel  so 
much  as  turn  his  head  to-day  ?  "  She  knew  he  hadn't,  for  she  had 
heard  the  whish  of  every  truss  of  hay  that  he  had  thrust  in,  without 
pause,  at  the  barn-chamber  window,  until  they  had  got  round  where 
he  couldn't  see  ;  and  here  she  caught  herself  up  indignantly,  and 
leaped  to  her  feet  from  the  fallen  log  whereon,  at  the  turn  of  the 
path,  she  had  seated  herself  mechanically,  wondering  how  ever  she 
had  come  round  to  that  again. 

Just  then  a  little  boat — not  Jaazaniah's — came  up  to  view  ;  long 
the  opposite  shore,  and  veered  this  way. 

I  said  she  was  at  the  turn  of  the  path.  Here,  the  bank  became 
abrupt  and  broken,  and  the  shore-path  ended  for  a  space.  A  little 
track  bent  off  into  the  woods,  and  followed  the  curve  around  the 
head  of  the  pond,  which  leaned  itself  coquettishly  this  side, — touch- 
ing again,  farther  on,  the  strip  of  pebbly  beach,  and  there  offering 
choice  of  road, — by  shore  or  on,  within  the  fringe  of  wood,  to  the 
point  where  they  had  first  struck  the  pond,  this  afternoon,  at  the 
foot  of  Farmer  Hartshorne's  pasture. 

Joanna  gave  a  flashing  glance  at  boat  and  oarsman,  sweeping, 
with  vigorous  stroke,  toward  her. 

"  Does  he  think,  I  wonder,  I  shall  stand  here  for  him  to  come 
and  fetch  me  ?  "  And  the  light  muslin  dress,  that  against  the 
green  had  been  an  unwitting  signal  for  his  guidance,  vanished  from 
the  rower's  sight  among  the  trees. 

Quick  as  thought  the  boat's  bow  turned.     It  was  a  race. 

If  Joanna  could  only  get  past  the  turning  first !  But  the  little 
feet  that  hurried  so  along  the  mossy  way,  stood  but  small  chance 
against  the  lusty  sweep  of  oars  that  shot  the  light  craft  with  such 
rapid  impulse,  along  the  inner  line,  toward  the  point  of  meeting. 
She  could  catch  frequent  glimpses  out  between  the  trees,  and  note 
its  progress.  She  could  measure  odds,  and  she  knew  that  she  was 
worsted.  That  he  must  know  it,  too,  and  that  to  leave  tbe  path, 
and  to  dash  away  into  the  woods,  as  for  an  instant  she  felt  temp- 
tation to  do,  would  not  only  cause  great  uneasiness  to  her  sister, 
but  would  be  to  those  other  eyes  absurd  and  manifest  flight. 
Since  there  was  no  help  for  it,  then,  she  would  keep  her  dignity,  at 
least.  So  she  walked  slowly,  again, — very  slowly, — and  gathered 
breath ;  and  came  out,  leisurely  enough  at  last,  upon  the  narrow 
beach  where  Gabriel  Hartshorne  sat  waiting  in  his  boat,  and  con- 
fronted him,  as  one  who  knew  no  cause  for  shrinking. 

The  young  man  sprang  ashore. 

"  I  was  determined  to  find  you,  Joanna.  I  had  something  to 
say.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  rowed  you  over." 

"  I  wanted  the  walk,  thank  you.    And  now  I  must  make  haste, 


The  Dairy  Farm.  61 

for  I  have  been  longer  than  I  meant,  and  I  daresay  the  others  have 
crossed  the  pond  below." 

"  No,"  answered  Gabriel.  "  The  children  were  getting  lilies  in 
the  bend  when  I  came  up." 

He  had  lain  about  upon  the  water,  watching,  a  full  hour  past, 
for  the  poor  reward  of  these  five  minutes.  He  would  not  have 
them  shortened,  now. 

Joanna  walked  on,  replying  nothing. 

"  You're  offended,  Joanna,  and  I  suppose  I  can  guess  why. 
But  there  hasn't  been  any  reason.  I  can't  explain  everything.  If 
I  could " 

"  I  am  sure  I  wouldn't  give  you  the  trouble.  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  be  supposed  to  be  offended  :  and  I  certainly  can't  pretend 
to  call  you  to  account." 

What  strange,  wayward  words  rush  to  the  lips  when  the  heart 
is  fullest !  These  translated  nothing  of  Joanna's  self.  Her  sky 
was  filling  again  with  light.  The  whole  east  crimsoned  with  a 
coming  joy.  The  impertinent  stars  faded  out  of  her  thought,  and 
were  forgotten.  She  could  have  sung,  like  a  bird  at  dawn.  And 
yet  she  answered  frowardly.  There  was  a  curious  delight  in  such 
very  utterance.  Like  a  child,  she  meant  to  be  good  in  a  minute  ; 
she  meant  to  let  herself  be  happy  ;  but  the  last  ebullitions  of  a 
relenting  naughtiness, — the  last  throbs  of  an  expiring  pain, — there 
is  a  pleasure  of  perversity — a  sweetness  of  torture — in  the  very 
prolonging  of  these. 

Gabriel  answered  to  her  words. 

"  I  wish  I  could  show  you  my  whole  mind,  this  minute,"  said 
the  young  man,  earnestly.  "  You  wouldn't — that  is,  I  hope  not 
— find  anything  in  it  that  would  offend  you.  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
explain.  Things  haven't  gone,  lately,  quite  as  they  used  to,  be- 
tween us.  I  only  want  to  ask  you  to  believe  it  isn't  my  fault. 
We've  always  been  good  friends,  haven't  we,  Joanna  ?  " 

That  nearly  spoiled  the  whole.  A  little  while  ago,  compound- 
ing meekly  with  fate,  Joanna  could  have  borne  to  be  "  old  Miss 
Gayworthy,"  for  a  certain  comfortable  friendliness  that  might  still 
be  hers  ;  now,  was  this  all  ? 

Had  he  pursued  her  so,  to  say  only  this  ?  That  he  would  like 
to  say  something  better,  if  he  could  ?  Joanna  felt  inclined  to  be 
rather  more  indignant  than  ever.  Spite  of  her  capricious  flight, 
the  great  solitude  wherein  she  sat  and  dreamed  had  been  so 
blithely  broken  by  the  coming  of  his  boat !  Such  a  thrill  recalled 
her  to  the  present, — such  a  nameless  hope  stirred  suddenly, — 
and  over  the  hard,  lonely  years  she  had  looked  out  on,  fell 
such  a  happy  mist,  once  more,  shutting  her  back  into  her  youth 
.again ! 

The  first  words,  too,  that  had  infringed,  with  a  manly  wilful- 
ness,  the  silence  that  had  lain  between  them,  giving  her  a  safe 
feeling  in  her  own  little  petulance,  that  might  be  indulged,  since. 


62  The  Gayworthys. 

without  humiliation  to  herself,  it  should  presently  be  overborn*, — 
meant  they  nothing  more  than  this  ? 

She  felt  very  like  the  child,  who  discovers,  after  his  naughti- 
ness, that  he  may  be  as  good  as  he  pleases,  yet  it  chiefly  concerns 
himself :  the  world  is  to  go  on  very  much  as  it  has  always  done 
before. 

He  only  wanted  to  be  friends,  then. 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered,  coldly.  "  There's  no  need  to  make 
a  special  talk  about  it. — When  are  you  going  to  Winthorpe  ?  " 

"  To  study  ?  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  all  that  is  put  off  for 
some  time.  Father  seems  to  need  me  at  home.  Things  don't  look 
altogether  clear,  ahead.  I  may  have  to  give  up  the  law,  after  all, 
and  stick  to  the  farm." 

"  There  they  are, — coming  round  the  point.  They  did  cross 
below.  We  must  make  haste  and  meet  them.  It  is  getting 
late." 

"  Joanna  !"  exclaimed  Gabriel,  suddenly,  placing  himself  before 
her  in  the  narrow  path, — "  if  it  was  fair  and  right  to  ask — as  things 
are — I  would  ask  you — ." 

It  was  a  blundering  beginning ;  but  he  would  have  blundered 
on.  blessedly,  if  she  had  let  him  ;  which  of  course  she  didn't. 

"  Better  not ! "  she  interposed,  hurriedly ;  putting  a  full  stop, 
so,  after  this,  his  third  dash.  Don't  you  remember  what  we  used 
to  say  at  school,  when  we  opened  our  noon-baskets  ?  '  Those  that 
ask,  shan't  have  ;  those  that  don't  ask,  don't  want  ?  '  It  always 
makes  me  contrary-minded,  when  folks  come  asking  things  !  " 

She  put  one  foot  on  a  great  stone  that  lay  in  the  water,  and 
sprang  past  him,  keeping  on  her  way.  He  could  but  follow. 

"  It's  clear  she  means  to  hold  me  off,"  was  his  thought. 

"  What  in  the  world  did  he  begin  with  a  capital  IF  for  ?  "  was 
hers.  "  And  why  shouldn't  it  be  '  fair  and  right,' — unless  he's 
gone  and  made  it  wrong  ?  " 

Thrums  again.  This  thread  broke.  Many  things  were  to 
happen  afterward  to  prevent  its  joining.  But  how  should  Joanna 
know  that  ?  She  went  home  gayer  hearted  than  for  long  past. 

It  would  come  right,  somehow ;  she  did  not  truly  believe  there 
was  anything  wrong,  despite  her  captious  coquetry.  He  would 
begin  again,  sometime  ;  before  long  ;  without  the  capital  IF  ;  and 
say  his  lesson  better. 

There  was  a  little  quick  restlessness  in  her  manner,  as  she  sat 
and  chatted  with  Prue  and  the  doctor,  taking  their  tea  together. 
She  sang  as  she  washed  up  the  cups  and  plates,  afterward  ;  when 
that  was  done,  she  sang  softly,  still  to  herself,  standing  out  by  the 
doorstone  in  the  great  maple  shade. 

Rebecca  complained  that  the  sun  had  given  her  a  headache,  and 
betook  herself  quietly,  with  her  pain,  to  bed. 


Watching  and  Waiting.  63 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WATCHING  AND   WAITING. 

AFTER  that,  for  days  and  days,  Joanna  watched  and  waited. 
Not  visibly.  Hardly  consciously.  She  never  stood  looking  out  of 
doors  and  windows,  to  see  if  anybody  were  coming.  She  omitted 
nothing  of  her  ordinary  share  of  household  duties.  She  took  care 
of  Say ;  put  on  her  long-sleeved  tyers  when  she  sent  her  out  to 
play ;  changed  her  stockings  when  she  came  in  with  wet  feet,  from 
playing  by  the  brook  ;  told  her  stories  ;  went  down  to  the  orchard 
with  her,  to  pick  up  red,  spicy  summer  apples  ;  filled  every  moment 
of  her  time  more  busily  even  than  her  wont,  with  successive  small 
objects  and  employments  ;  never  paused  to  think  what  it  was  that 
she  expected,  or  that  she  expected  anything ;  yet,  each  day,  put 
some  slight  freshness  of  decoration  to  her  simple  summer-afterncon 
toilet,  thinking,  away  down  secretly  in  the  heart  that  turned  a  deaf 
ignoring  to  its  own  whispers, — "  To-night,  to-night  !  surely,  he 
will  come  !  " 

She  could  not  think  he  would  let  it  all  end  here.  That  he  had 
taken  her  little  flippancy  for  final  answer  to  the  question  not  yet 
fairly  asked. 

She  avoided  with  marvelous  ingenuity  any  little  plan  of  walk  or 
visit,  that  should  appropriate  those  after-tea,  twilight  hours,  when, 
nothing  else  occupying  the  time,  they  were  accustomed  to  gather 
about  the  great  open  front-door,  that  faced  down  a  grass-walk  of 
some  ten  or  twelve  yards'  length,  to  the  white  gate  in  the  garden 
fence.  Through  this  white  gate,  often,  neighbors  came,  strolling 
in  to  spend  a  leisure  half-hour.  Down  the  green  vista  Joar.na 
gazed  as  the  shadows  deepened,  night  after  night, — sometimes  left 
sitting  there  alone, — in  an  unconfessed  expectation  of  a  coming 
fate,  And  night  after  night  the  katydids  sang  in  the  maples,  and 
the  long  summer  twilight  faded  away,  and  the  dews  grew  chill, 
and  a  dull  soreness  gathered  and  spread  about  her  heart,  and  what 
she  looked  for  came  not.  Everything  else  that  could  come,  came, 
at  one  time  or  another,  startling  her  with  successive  shocks  of  cer- 
tainty and  disappointment,  as  the  little  gate  swung,  clattering,  after 
each  entrance,  and  figures,  that  might  at  first  glimpse  be  any- 
body's, moved  up  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  great  trees.  The 
minister  dropped  in  for  a  minute  with  revival  news  ;  a  farmer's 
wife  had  a  word  for  Prue ;  village  girls  came,  laughing  and  chat- 
ting, and  stayed,  and  chattered  on,  till  Joanna  could  have  shrieked 
at  them  ;  little  boys  after  the  doctor;  and  then  everybody,  at  last, 
in  all  Hilbury,  was  safe  at  home  for  the  night ;  and  Prue  was  lock- 
ing up,  and  Rebecca's  gentle  voice  called  her  remonstratingly  in, 
out  of  the  dampness ;  and  the  katydids  were  shriller  and  more 


64  The  Gayworthys. 

insulting  than  ever ;  and  the  starch  was  all  out  of  her  pretty  muslin 
dress  ;  and  that  day's  hope  was  over. 

Forty  rods  or  less  away,  down  the  road,  at  the  Hartshorne  farm- 
house, somebody  else  spent  those  same  twilight  hours,  thinking 
and  brooding,  expecting  nothing.  Forty  rods,  at  most,  long  meas- 
ure ;  what  had  that  to  do  with  it  ?  There  was  a  space  widening 
between  these  two  not  measurable  by  roods. 

One  night  the  doctor  came  in  late  to  tea, — with  something  very 
evidently  on  his  mind.  He  had  been  to  the  village  at  the  Bridge. 

"  Prue,"  he  asked,  suddenly,  "  have  you  seen  anything  of  Hart- 
shorne's  folks  for  a  week  or  two  back  ?  Seems  to  me  I  haven't." 

"Why,  no,"  says  Prue.  "Not  to  speak  of.  And  it's  a  little 
singular,  too.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Hartshorne  gets  pretty  well  tired 
out  with  all  the  work  she  has,  in  haying-time,  and  we've  been  busy, 
But  I  can't  think  what's  come  of  Gabe.  He's  rather  left  us  off, 
lately,  I  must  say." 

"  There's  something  wrong  there,  Prue  !  " 

Joanna  started  up  from  the  table, — all  but  the  doctor  had  long 
finished  the  meal, — and  hastened  suddenly  out  after  Say,  who  had 
run  off,  in  her  clean  stockings  and  pantalets,  to  sail  chips  in  the 
horse-trough. 

"  They  say  down  at  Barstow's  that  the  old  man  grows  queerer 
every  day.  He  drives  down  and  buys  odd  things  in  ridiculous 
quantities  ;  things  he  can't  possibly  have  any  use  for ;  and  perhaps 
Gabriel  comes  along  afterward  and  brings  'em  back,  with  some 
excuse.  Yesterday,  there  were  half  a  dozen  in  there,  standing 
round,  and  in  comes  the  old  man, — his  otter-skin  cap  on,  too,  in 
the  doggiest  of  dog-days, — and  calls  for  •  axe-heads.  Six  of 
'em.' " 

"  '  That's  a  good  many,'  says  Barstow,  not  knowing  exactly  how 
to  manage.  '  Want  any  helves  ?  '  '  Didn't  I  say  '  axe-heads  f '  he 
snarls  out,  quite  fierce.  'When  I  want  anything  else,  I'll  ask 
for't.'  '  What  yer  goin'  to  set  'em  to  ?  '  says  old  Hines,  speaking 
up  from  the  corner,  in  his  shrill  way,  and  winking  to  the  others, 
that  upside-clown  wink  of  his  that  takes  all  one  side  of  his  face  to 
do  it.  '  Hallelujah  metre ! '  roars  Hartshorne  again,  and  then 
laughs.  '  No  more  sense  to  him  than  a  partridge,'  says  Hines, 
chuckling.  Just  here,  Gabriel  came  in,  looking  hot  and  hurried. 
He  shook  his  head  at  Barstow  over  his  father's  shoulder,  and  he 
turned  round  and  waited  on  another  customer,  and  presently  they 
began  to  talk  of  something  else,  and  then  the  old  man  seemed  to 
forget  all  about  it,  and  Gabe  got  him  away. — He  looks  strange, 
too.  If  they  asked  me,  I  should  tell  'em  not  to  trust  him  about 
alone.  Gabriel  does  seem  anxious  and  keeps  round  after  him  as 
well  as  he  can.  But  the  old  man  fires  up  if  he  notices." 

"  O  dear  ! "  replies  Prue,  shocked.  "  I  do  hope  he  isn't  going  to 
lose  his  mind  !  " 

The  Doctor  moved  his  head  slowly,  twice,  from  side  to  sid«. 


Watching  and  Waiting.  65 

"  I've  had  my  thoughts  before  now,"  said  he.  "  I  hope,  what- 
ever it  is,  it'll  take  a  quiet  turn  with  him.  It's  hard  enough,  any- 
way, on  Gabriel  and  the  old  lady. — He  oughtn't  to  be  irritated, 
though.  It's  queer  what  there  is  in  human  nature  that  turns  out 
Hineses.  People  that  never  had  any  wits  to  spare  themselves, 
always  ready  to  egg  on,  and  chuckle,  when  they  see  a  better  fellow 
going  a  bit  astray.  Every  cur  runs  after  and  barks,  when  a  noble- 
blooded  mastiff  gets  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail.  Barstow's  is  a  bad 
place  for  Hartshorne." 

"  But,  father,"  cried  Rebecca,  with  an  eager,  horrified  look, 
"  can't  something  be  done  ?  Why  don't  you  tell  them  ?  " 

"Child,"  answered  the  Doctor,  almost  impatiently,  "what  can  / 
do  ?  it's  in  the  hands  of  God.  And,  next  to  Him,  they  know  more 
than  anybody  else,  already." 

The  Doctor  finished  his  tea,  presently,  and  got  up  and  went  out. 

Joanna  came  in.  Prue  turned  round  upon  her  with  the  news. 
She  stood  straight  up  between  them,  growing  pale,  and  looking 
from  one  to  the  other,  with  such  an  expression  as  she  had  never 
shown  them  on  her  face  before. 

"  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  she  said,  slowly,  with  a  sort  of 
trample  in  her  tone.  "  And,  you  two  !  don't  ever  you  mention  it 
again  to  a  living  soul.  It's  a  shame.  It's  Hilbury  gossip.  I 
wonder  father  listens  to  all  they  say,  down  there  at  Barstow's ! " 
And  with  this,  she  left  them  and  went  out  to  the  front  doorstone, 
and  sat  down,  alone.  Could  this  be  why  "things  didn't  look  quite 
clear  ahead  "  to  Gabriel  ?  Was  this  the  unspoken  hindrance  that 
lay  between  them  ?  Had  she  from  a  heedless,  unreasoning  im- 
pulse, checked  the  avowal,  that  breaking  through  a  harsh  restraint, 
was  ready  in  that  moment  only,  to  have  rushed  from  his  lips  ? 
Might  she  have  given  him  love  and  comfort,  that  now  he  would 
never  come  to  ask  again  ? — She  laid  her  hands  upon  her  knees, 
and  her  face  in  them,  and  questioned  herself  of  these  things 
bitterly. 

By  and  by,  her  head  flung  itself  up  again,  with  a  sudden  spring. 

"  After  all,  he  knew  I  couldn't  have  understood.  And  they 
were  all  close  by.  There  was  no  time.  He  wouldn't  give  it  up  so, 
if  he  meant  anything.  /  wouldn't,  if  I  were  a  man !  At  any  rate, 
he  can't  keep  out  of  the  way  forever." 

With  another  sudden  movement,  she  stood  up.  Then,  she 
walked  restlessly  down  the  grass-path  to  the  gate  beneath  the 
maples.  She  looked  up  the  road,  down  the  road,  in  a  clear,  early 
evening  light.  To  the  top  of  the  long,  sloping  hill,  on  one  side ; 
to  the  red  buildings  of  the  Hartshorne  farm,  below,  upon  the  other. 
A  few  steps  would  take  her  there  ;  doubtless  the  old  lady  was 
wondering  why  some  of  them  did  not  come.  A  month  ago  it 
would  have  been  che  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  run  down, 
and  call  in.  Now,  how  impossible  it  had  become  !  She  and 
Gabriel  might  as  well  have  been  set  apart  on  opposite  ocea»- 


66  The  Gayworthys. 

shores. — Would  this  be  so  always  ?  Would  this  mysterious  gulf 
lie  between  them,  unknown  of  others,  holding  them  asunder,  all 
their  lives  ? — Might  they  "grow  old  before  each  other's  eyes,"  yet 
miss  the  "  comfortable  friendliness  ?  " 

A  man's  figure  came  into  view,  moving  up,  in  the  softening  and 
uncertain  twilight. 

Joanna's  heart  beat  hard.  He  was  coming  at  last.  And  she 
would  not  be  shy  and  cold.  She  would  even  give  him  opportunity. 
Poor  fellow !  he  had  difficulty  enough  in  his  way,  if  all  were  true. 
She  would  be  kind.  She  would  stand  still,  there  at  the  gate, — 
hold  herself,  forcibly,  against  her  own  wayward  wish, — and  meet 
him,  alone.  She  would, — well  it  mattered  not  what  she  would 
have  done.  The  figure  drew  nearer  while  these  thoughts  were 
flashing  through  her  mind. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  !  "  she  muttered,  in  a  whisper,  angrily,  be- 
tween her  teeth  ;  her  hand  clutching  with  a  fierce  pressure  the 
upper  bar  of  the  white  gate,  as  one  clutches  at  any  outward  thing, 
to  bear  a  horrible  pain.  She  turned,  and  moved  swiftly  off  under 
the  screening  boughs  to  the  house-door,  whence  at  the  moment 
Rebecca  came  out. 

"  Here  comes  your  revival  man,"  said  she  sharply.  "  Stay  and 
attend  to  him.  I  can't."  And  she  ran  up-stairs  to  her  own  cham- 
ber, shutting  herself  in. 

The  quiet  enduring  of  some  souls  gets  laid  upon  it  not  only  its 
own  unstinted  measure  of  pain,  but  half  the  burden  of  others' 
impatient  suffering.  Gordon  King  was  coming  to  tell  them  of  his 
betrothment.  And  Rebecca,  of  all  the  household,  must  stay  alone 
and  listen  to  his  news.  I  think  if  he  had  known  how  this  would 
chance,  the  young  minister,  clear  as  he  might  be  of  any  falsity  in 
word,  would  yet  have  shrunk,  with  a  certain  secret  compunction, 
from  the  ordeal. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,  after  a  few  commonplaces,  "you  know 
something,  already,  of  what  I  have  to  tell  you.  I  hope  you  are 
glad  for  us?"  So  he  asked  her  for  congratulation.  What  could 
Rebecca  say  ?  Her  face  was  pale  and  earnest  in  the  dim  light,  as 
she  answered  him  in  words  given  her  surely  by  that  Spirit  who 
teacheth  His  own  in  each  moment  of  their  need  what  they  shall 
say  and  what  they  shall  speak. 

"  I  hope,"  she  replied,  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  that  you  may  both 
be  glad,  all  your  lives,  and  forever,  in  each  other, — and  in  the 
Lord  ! "  And  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him  untremblingly,  as 
an  angel  might. 

Did  no  secret  intimation  whisper  to  him  then,  in  the  presence  of 
that  grander,  purer  womanhood,  of  something  he  might  have  missed 
in  grasping  after  a  mere  witchery  of  prettiness  ? 

He  uncovered  his  head,  involuntarily,  with  one  hand,  as  he  met 

hers  with  the  other,  and  held  it  fervently.     For  a  minute  or  two, 

vhe  stood   silent  in  the  solemnity  of   such  giving  joy.     In  those 


Watching  and  Waiting.  67 

instants  perhaps,  these  two  souls  were  nearer  to  each  other,  though 
they  knew  it  not,  than  common  souls,  in  common  mood,  can  be 
even  in  the  avowal  and  acceptance  of  what  such  call  love  ;  nearer 
than  either  might  be  again,  to  any  other,  while  flesh  should  hold 
them  darkling. 

Afterward,  he  said,  "  I  hope  you  will  see  Stacy  soon.  A  friend 
like  you  will  be  a  strength  for  her.  She  is  younger  than  you, 
spiritually.  Her  feet,  you  know,  are  newly  set  in  the  upward  way." 

This  almost  went  beyond.  Something  that  Rebecca  in  her  low- 
liness struggled  with,  as  a  motion  of  the  old  depravity,  rose  up 
within  her  at  this  demand  from  him.  For  she  could  not  help — 
saint  as  she  was — her  own  clear,  native,  common  sense.  Stacy 
was  a  good  two  years  her  elder,  as  the  world  reckons,  A  lifetime 
beyond  her,  in  that  which  Rebecca  Gayworthy  had  never  lived  at 
all.  She  might  wish  her  well ;  she  truly  did ;  honestly,  in  her 
inmost  soul,  she  prayed  for  her  the  prayer  of  self-forgetting  faith. 
But  go  to  her !  As  she  was  now !  In  the  fresh  exultation  of  her 
double  achievement,  for  this  world  and  the  next !  To  read,  and 
to  be  read,  as  those  two  woman-souls  would  surely  decipher  each 
other,  and  to  utter  words  of  spiritual  sympathy  and  earthly  con- 
gratulation !  What  she  did,  she  would  do  truly.  Not  this  now. 

"  Stacy  has  better  strength  than  mine  to  lean  on.  Even  human. 
She  will  not  need  me  yet.  If  ever  she  does,  be  sure  I  will  not  fail 
her.  Give  her  my  good  wishes. 

This  was  all ;  said  with  a  calm,  pure  smile.  Nothing  to  answer, 
nothing  that  he  need  translate  beyond  the  letter.  Yet  Gordon 
King  knew,  dimly,  as  he  listened,  that  he  had  wronged  that  gra- 
cious nature;  knew,  yet  more  dimly, — it  was  a  thought  away  back 
in  the  embryo  shadows  of  his  soul,  that  only  years  might  give  a 
form  wherewith  to  haunt  him, — that  he  also  wronged  himself. 

This  he  shook  off ;  thanked  her  for  her  friendly  words  ;  pressed 
once  again  the  hand  that  let  itself  lie  passively  in  his  ;  bade  her 
good-night;  and  passed  on,  up  over  the  hill,  in  the  golden,  growing 
starlight,  to  Stacy's  home,  where  there  were  sweet  words,  and  be- 
witching looks,  and  winning  smiles  and  willing  kisses  waiting  him. 

Rebecca,  alone  under  the  still  heaven,  as  his  last  quick  footfall 
came  faintly  back  upon  her  ear,  took  up  the  cross  that  lay  upon 
her  path,  and  went  away  to  God  with  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT. 

ANY  one  who  had  been  by  chance  in  the  shadow  of  fence  or 
bush  by  the  lonely  roadside,  upon  a  certain  August  morning,  as 
Eben  Hatch  came  riding  back  from  errands  to  the  blacksmith's, 


68  The  Gayworthys. 

and  at  the  village  store  and  post-office  at  the  Bridge,  would  have 
seen  something  funny  and  rather  unaccountable.  If  Eben  had 
been  ten  years  old,  instead  of  six-and-twenty,  and  if  it  had  been 
in  the  previous  knowledge  of  the  looker-on  that  one  of  those  per- 
ambulating caravans  of  wonders,  human  and  zoological,  that  make 
their  appearance  at  certain  intervals  in  our  quiet  New  England 
villages,  to  set  all  the  urchin's  brains  a  madding,  and  their  bodies 
more  often  than  otherwise  upside  down,  and  to  paper,  gratis,  with 
bright,  monstrous  pictured  placards,  bar-rooms,  and  offices,  and 
variety  shops,  had  recently  sojourned  at  the  Bridge, — he  might 
have  thought  he  understood  the  secret  impulse  of  the  mysterious 
and  comical  evolutions  he  would  have  so  beheld. 

Old  Clumsy  jogged  on,  in  a  mild,  dignified  imperturbability ; 
perhaps  it  was  a  virtue  born  of  necessity,  like  the  middle-aged 
propriety  of  some  humans,  under  otherwise  exhilarating  circum- 
stances ;  they  would  have  been  queer  antics,  indeed,  that  her  old 
muscles  could  have  executed  ;  while  Eben,  upon  her  back,  the  bridle 
dropped  loosely  upon  her  mane,  an  unfolded  letter  in  his  right 
hand,  was  giving  vent  to  some  unwonted  internal  excitement  in  a 
series  of  gymnastics  that  one  would  think  could  only  have  been 
learned  in  the  Ring. 

Now  with  a  long,  wide-mouthed  cachinnation,  he  flung  himself, 
backward,  till  his  shoulders  all  but  touched  the  horse's  croup  ; 
then,  flourishing  his  arms  with  a  wild  exultation,  he  bounded  up 
and  down  in  his  saddle ;  and,  presently,  with  a  sudden  "  haw- 
haw,"  as  if  the  overwhelming  joke,  whatever  it  might  be,  made 
itself  abruptly  palpable  in  a  new  and  utterly  irresistible  aspect, 
performed  a  "right-about  face  "  unheard-of  in  cavalry  tactics,  and 
set  his  sunburnt  nose  in  the  direction  of  Clumsy's  scraggy  and 
wondering  tail.  Resting  but  an  instant,  however,  in  this  position, 
he  made  a  right-face  again,  bringing  himself  round  with  both  legs 
dangling  at  the  beast's  near  side ;  and  here,  pushing  his  straw  hat 
up  with  both  hands,  in  one  of  which  the  letter  still  rustled,  scratched 
his  sunbrowned  locks,  and  with  the  unsubsided  grin  of  delight 
yet  broadening  his  honest  face,  gave  enigmatic  utterance  to  the 
conclusion  of  this  ecstasy  of  inspiration — 

"  Hooray  !  That'll  do  !  That'll  fetch  it !  I'll  be— buttered— 
if  it  won't !  " 

And  resuming  his  masculine  straddle,  he  stuffed  the  missive 
into  his  trousers'  pocket,  and  seizing  the  leathern  bridle,  strapped 
Clumsy's  neck  therewith,  rather  as  a  mild  easing-off  for  his  own 
effervescent  spirits,  than  in  any  hope  of  altering  a  gait  sublimely 
unaffected  by  all  that  had  foregone. 

When  he  arrived  at  home,  having  ridden  in  by  the  lane,  and  left 
his  horse  at  the  barn,  Huldah  was  out  among  the  "  groves."  You 
know  what  I  mean,  of  course  :  among  the  lines  of  wet  sheets  and 
table-cloths  in  the  clothes-yard ;  it  being  washing-day.  Eben 
could  see  her  stout-shod  feet,  and  comely  ankles  cased  in  gray 


Eben's  Coup-d'Etat.  69 

below  the  snowy  drop-scenes ;  and,  above,  her  brown  hair  ruffled 
by  the  breeze,  and  a  bit  of  flushed  forehead,  as  she  struggled  with 
with  the  flapping  linen  ;  for  the  mountain  wind  was  vigorous. 

He  wisely  withheld  the  greeting  he  had  ready.  Without  any 
theory  about  it,  he  had  got  hold  of  this  bit  of  practical  knowledge ; 
a  good  nest-egg  of  everyday  wisdom  for  a  man  to  begin  life  with. 
Women  are  concentrative  in  their  natures.  They  bend  their  force 
upon  one  point  at  a  time,  and  that  intensely,  after  the  manner  of 
a  blow-pipe.  Huldah,  with  a  clothes-pin  between  her  teeth,  might 
give  an  answer  from  the  right  or  wrong  side,  as  should  happen. 
Large-hearted  and  happy  natured,  she  would  never  sharpen  or 
narrow  to  vixenishness  ;  and  yet  she  had  the  little  distinctive  wa)s 
of  her  sex,  for  all.  So  Eben  looked  at  her  as  he  went  by,  reterv- 
ing  his  fire  ;  and  passed  on  into  the  out-room,  where  he  found  his 
brown  bread  and  apple-pie  and  cheese  put  up  and  waiting  for  him 
in  a  bright  tin  pail ;  and  taking  this  in  his  hand,  turned  off  again, 
marching  away  to  his  field  work,  a  secretly  exultant  man,  with  his 
coup-d'etat  in  his  pocket. 

All  day  long  it  lay  there,  giving  him  boldness  and  strength.  For 
the  most  part.  A  momentary  reaction  would  come,  now  and  then, 
of  a  doubt  that  struck  him  like  a  sudden  blow  with  the  thought, 
"  What  if  it  shouldn't  work,  after  all  ? "  It  was  his  last  snot. 
Well,  if  it  missed,  he  would  know  at  any  rate  where  he  was,  and 
which  way  to  beat  retreat ;  the  fight  would  be  over. 

"  I've  got  some  news  for  you,  Huldy,"  he  said,  as  the  maiden 
served  him  with  his  late  dinner,  on  his  return  from  the  distant  field. 
She  looked  rosy  and  pretty  enough,  after  her  cosmetics  of  vapor 
and  breeze,  in  her  tidy  out-room,  where  the  clothes  dried  from  the 
wash  lay  heaped  up,  white  and  rustling,  and  odorous  of  sweet 
cleanliness,  in  broad  willow  baskets ;  her  hair  smoothed  and  a 
clean  calico  gown  on,  and  a  smiling  grace  of  readiness  upon  her  as 
she  fetched  the  viands  from  the  pantry ;  her  energy  concentered 
now  on  Eben's  comfort,  and  secretly,  upon  making  the  most  of 
this,  their  little  hour  of  rest  and  companionship. 

"  I've  got  some  news  for  you.     But  I  guess  't  '11  keep." 

"  Not  such  a  great  while,  I'll  be  bound ;  if  it  depends  on  you. 
Good  or  bad  ?  " 

"  Well,  that's  as  you  take  it.  Kinder  middlin'.  I'll  tell  yer  to- 
night, when  I  come  in  from  the  chores.  Hain't  got  time  now.  It's 
consider'ble  of  a  story." 

Huldah  looked  at  him  over  one  shoulder,  as  she  went  into  the 
cheese-room.  There  was  a  sparkle  of  determination  in  his  eye, 
and  a  certain  air  of  delayed  triumph  about  him,  as  he  spoke,  that 
gave  her  a  sudden  thought  of  possible  personal  application  in  this 
story  that  should  becoming. 

"  He's  goin'  to  be  more  redick'lous  than  ever.  That's  what  it 
is.  And  he  thinks  he's  so  mighty  cunnin'  about  it.  We'll  see," 
and  Huldah  sparkled  too,  with  feminine  mischief,  and  made  a 


70  The  Gayworthys. 

pretty  bit  of  picture,  that  nobody  beheld,  lit  with  gleams  from 
under  the  dark  eyelashes,  and  from  between  the  ruddy  lips,  as  she 
laughed  to  herself  over  the  great  sage-cheese  from  which  she  was 
cutting  a  generous  wedge. 

Eben  ate  and  chuckled ;  and  watched  Huldah  in  and  out  and 
round  the  room,  as  if  she  were  a  little  bird  on  which  he  could  put 
a  cat's  paw  at  any  moment.  Huldah  hopped  tamely  enough,  but 
felt  her  wings  stealthily  and  kept  every  feather  trimmed  and  ready 
for  a  sudden  unfurling. 

"  Concernin'  whom  ?  "  she  asked,  abruptly,  after  a  long  pause, 
filled  only  by  such  pantomime. 

"  Oh,  the  news!  You're  thinkin*  of  that  yet,  are  ye?  Well, 
concernin'  me,  mostly.  Donno's  anybody  else'll  care  about  it. 
May  make  some  difference  to  the  Doctor.  I'll  tell  yer  to-night. 
Yer'll  want  me  to  help  stretch  them  sheets,  I  'spose  ?  " 

Huldah  wasn't  quite  so  merry  and  comfortable  after  Eben  went 
out,  leaving  her  to  clear  up  the  dishes,  and  ruminate  upon  his 
words.  "  Difference  to  the  Doctor  ?  "  Could  it  be  that  somebody 
was  enticing  him  away  from  his  old  place  with  higher  wages  ? 
Well,  if  Eben  could  be  mean  enough  to  give  in  to  that,  he  might 
go.  There'd  be  no  trusting  him  in  anything.  Huldah  was  quite 
angry  at  this  imagination.  And  even  when  she  had  mentally 
repudiated  it,  as  impossible,  the  mischief  came  no  more  back  to 
eye  and  lip.  The  mystery  might  be  perplexing,  but  it  was  no  longer 
funny.  She  was  off  the  scent  again,  and  off  her  guard.  So  much 
the  better  for  Eben. 

After  sundown,  when  the  chores  were  through,  and  the  milk 
strained  and  set  away,  they  took  up  the  little  scene,  where  they  had 
broken  it  off. 

Huldah  had  been  sprinkling.  All  the  small  articles  lay  piled  in 
neat,  white  rolls  upon  her  fair  deal  table,  and  only  sheets  and 
table-linen  lay  waiting  in  the  big  basket,  for  Eben,  as  he  always 
did,  to  help  her  "stretch."  His  rough  hands  were  scrupulously 
clean  for  the  operation  ;  a  weekly  treat,  which  made  Monday  even- 
ing no  less  a  blessed  epoch  to  be  looked  foward  to  by  the  simple 
country  lover,  than  the  time-honored  Sunday,  when  rural  swains 
have  traditional  privilege  to  get  themselves  up  in  their  best,  and 
be,  otherwise,  as  "redick'lous  "  as  may  please  them.  And  he  felt 
so  strong  to-night,  with  this  foreclosure  of  the  long  mortgage  he 
had  held  on  Huldah's  heart,  lying  snugly  in  his  pocket ! 

"  Well,  Huldy,  I  s'pose  yer  achin'  to  know  ? "  This,  as  he 
gathered  up  in  his  hands,  deftly  enough  for  a  man,  the  folded  end 
of  the  sheet  Huldah  offered  him,  she  walking  off  at  the  same  time, 
with  her  own,  to  take  her  stand  opposite. 

"  Folks  that  are  in  tribulation  themselves,  never  see  how  any- 
body else  can  be  feelin'  easy,"  retorted  Huldah,  turning  about  and 
taking  the  cloth  by  the  double  corners.  "  Now,  then,  snap!" 

Up  went  their  arms,  in  admirable  precision,  each  pair  of  hands 


Eben's  Coup-d'Etat.  71 

uniting  themselves,  to  be  flung  apart  and  downward,  with  a  sudden 
jerk,  and  a  mighty  concussion  of  the  bellying  web  against  the  air. 

Huldah  felt  her  power,  and  her  courage  with  it. 

There  was  something  illustrative  in  this  little  labor-pastime  of 
theirs, — something  suggestive  in  its  likeness  to  their  daily  ways  of 
going  on,  and  what  these  were  at  last  to  come  to.  There  must  be 
just  so  many  snaps,  first  of  all ;  little  hearty  measurements  of 
mutual  strength  and  dexterity  ;  then  came  the  gathering  up  in 
earnest,  for  the  '  pull  '  when  each  drew  away,  apparently,  with  all 
force,  from  the  other,  yet  taking  care,  the  while,  to  hold  stoutly  by 
the  good  bond  between,  lest  either  failing,  should  so  get  the  worst 
of  it ;  then  the  final  folding,  bringing  them  nearer  and  nearer, 
hand  to  hand,  till  they  stood  close,  at  last,  face  to  face,  with  their 
shared  and  lightened  work  between  them.  Eben  felt  the  secret 
significance  and  symbolism,  every  Monday  twilight  of  his  life, 
though  if  the  clumsy  fellow  had  tried  to  put  it  into  words,  he  would 
never  assuredly,  have  "  fetched  it." 

"  If  it'll  be  any  relief  to  your  mind,  speak  out,"  says  Huldah, 
again. 

Snap ! 

"  Oh,  it's  not  much,"  rejoins  Eben,  his  arms  going  up  for  the 
third  time. 

Snap ! 

"  Only, — "  gathering  up  for  the  tug, — "  I  got  a  letter,  again,  this 
morning,  from  my  cousin  out  in  Illinois." 

A  long  pull, — a  pull  together, — and  a  pause  ;  a  little  twitch,  may- 
be, of  anxiety  between  the  two  hearts,  as  well. 

"  And  he  wants  me  to  come  out  there,  and  settle  down." 

Another  strain,  as  if  each  would  tear  away  from  the  other, 
almost  in  anger ;  only  for  the  something,  woven  too  strong,  that 
held  them  bound,  and  that  neither  would  let  go. 

"  And, — I've  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind — when  the  crops 
are  all  in — to  go." 

It  was  time  for  the  third  pull ;  but  one  end  gave  way,  suddenly. 
Huldah's  arms  fell,  and  Eben  tumbled  up,  ingloriously,  against 
the  cheese-room  door.  Must  a  conqueror  necessarily  look  grand 
and  graceful,  in  the  actual  moment  of  victory  ? 

Huldah  laughed ;  but  it  was  an  odd  little  laugh,— her  lips  all 
a-quiver. 

They  gave  the  third  pull  in  silence,  somewhat  feebly,  as  must 
needs  be ;  a  truer,  mightier  impulse  counter-current  to  will  and 
muscle,  urging  them,  rather,  to  each  other's  arms.  Then  they 
began  to  fold.  Meeting  midway,  the  man,  the  victor,  looked 
down,  without  a  word,  upon  the  eyes  that  shrouded  themselves 
beneath  proud,  half-angry,  trembling  lids.  They  felt  the  magnet- 
ism, and  flashed  up. 

"  All  the  way  out  there  ?  "  says  she,  the  vanquished,  with  a 
voice  of  tears.  "  Alone  ?  " 


72  The  Gayworthys. 

"  No,  by  thunder,  Huldy !  Not  if  you'll  go  with  me ! "  And 
the  strong-  arms  seized  and  held  her.  "  Consider'ble  of  a  story  " 
had  concentrated  all  its  essence,  by  a  heart-chemistry,  into  a  few 
pungent  words.  The  white  folds  fell  to  the  floor.  There  was  no 
interposition.  Eben  had  "  fetched  it." 

A  day  or  two  after,  Joanna  stood  in  her  chamber,  with  a  new 
bonnet  in  her  hand  ;  just  sent  from  Selport.  Pretty  enough  ;  but 
what  use  now  ?  A  woman  has  but  one  use  for  all  her  thousand 
little  fripperies  ;  to  please  the  eyes  she  loves. 

Joanna  fingered,  idly,  the  ribbons.  All  the  family  had  seen  and 
admired  it.  Now  it  was  going  back  into  its  box.  She  wondered 
if  she  should  ever  care  to  put  it  on. 

Steps  came  up  the  stairs  ;  Huldah  showed  herself,  unwontedly, 
at  the  door ;  her  face  full  of  something  she  had  to  say.  So  full, 
evidently,  that  she  could  not  quite  easily  begin  ;  so  she  stood  and 
rolled  a  corner  of  her  apron. 

Joanna  looked  up,  in  somewhat  surprised  inquiry. 

"  That's  a  dreadful  pretty  bunnet,"  says  Huldah  ;  much  as  if 
that  were  not  the  thing,  either. 

Joanna  wondered  what  strange  fit  of  idleness  and  folly  had  come 
over  the  brisk  and  busy  handmaid. 

"  I  hate  to  be  too  curious,  Joanna  ;  "  the  girl  resumed,  a  little 
desperately;  "but  would  you  mind  tellin'  me  what  they  ask  you 
for  such  a  bunnet  as  that,  down  to  Selport  ?  " 

"  Nine  dollars,"  replied  Joanna,  quietly,  and  marveled  again 
within  herself,  what  next  ? 

Everything  else,  however,  seemed  frightened  out  of  Huldah's 
head  at  that  amazing  statement.  She  stood  still,  and  looked  at 
Joanna,  with  eyes  that  appeared  as  if  they  never  would  wink  again. 
As  if  at  least,  were  there  any  exaggeration  in  this,  they  meant  to 
see  through  it  first.  Evidently,  however,  Joanna  intended  simply 
what  she  had  said.  She  was  busying  herself  with  a  little  bend- 
ing of  the  flowers,  and  a  little  perking  of  the  ribbons, — I  suppose 
a  woman  would  do  this,  mechanically,  though  she  were  about  to 
lay  away  the  finery  forever,  for  the  sake  of  a  life-long  grief  be- 
fallen her, — and  gave  not  a  glance  after  her  words,  to  note  their 
effect. 

"  Nine  dullars  !  Well,  they  ain't  bashful,  down  there,  be  they  ? 
Not  the  least  mite  !  " 

Now,  Joanna  did  look  up,  and  laugh.  "  Why,  Huldah,  she 
said,  "  What  is  it  ?  Did  you  think  of  sending  to  Selport  for  a 
bonnet  ?  " 

"  Well,  no, — I  donno's  I  did ;  I  wasn't  thinkin'  decidedly  of 
anything.  Only  I  'spose  I  might  as  well  be  pricin'  things  a  little. 
I've  got  to  do  some  fixin'  up  before  the  fall.  You  see," — she  con- 
tinued, hesitatingly,  "  I  never  calculated  to  live  out,  all  my  life. 
I've  had  a  real  pleasant  home  here,  that's  a  fact ;  an'  you  and 
Rebecca,  and  Mis'  Vorse,  an'  the  Doctor,  has  been  just  like  my 


11  Gabriel  !  "  73 

own  folks  to  me.  But  everybody  likes  a  little  change  of  some 
kind,  now  and  then  ;  and  Ebenezer,  he's  got  to  be  so  redick'lous, — 
I  don't  see's  there's  any  other  way  of  pacifyin*  him ;  and  so — I've 
pretty  much  made  up  my  mind — to  get  married  and  try  that 
awhile ! " 

These  two  brief  little  scenes,  homely  and  absurd  in  the  letter  of 
their  enactment,  yet  sweet  and  grand  in  spirit,  with  the  blossom- 
ing of  happy  love  and  faithful  purpose,  forever  the  one,  identical, 
divinely-beautiful  thing  in  human  hearts  and  lives, — decided  and  an- 
nounced it  all.  After  the  crops  were  in, — a  couple  of  months, 
or  little  more,  hence, — Huldah  and  Eben  were  to  take  each  other 
by  the  hand,  and  go.  Changes  were  to  begin  at  the  Gayworthy 
farm.  Who  might  guess  what  should  come  next  ? 

Meantime,  they  had  their  own  kite  to  fly,  now ;  and  there  was 
nothing  to  remind  them  that  they  had  ever  helped  to  tie  a  bob  to 
the  tail  of  anybody's  else. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"GABRIEL  !" 

MRS.  HARTSHORNE'S  plum-colored  silk  and  muslin  pelerine  were 
laid  out  on  the  bed  in  the  best  bedroom.  The  very  cat,  walking 
through,  would  have  known  by  that,  that  it  was  Sunday  morning. 
Old  Flighty, — named  in  colthood,  but  long  outgrown  the  corre- 
spondence to  her  title, —  (don't  Rose,  and  Lily,  and  Grace, — yes, 
even  Patience,  and  Charity,  and  Comfort,  and  Frank,  and  Peter, 
and  Felix,  and  Agnes,  come  often  to  outlive  and  belie  theirs  also  ?) 
stood  harnessed  in  the  wagon,  and  tied  to  the  front  fence;  and 
Gabriel  was  in  the  garden,  gathering  as  he  always  had  done,  since 
he  was  four  years  old,  a  Sunday  nosegay  for  his  mother,  of  late 
pinks  and  sweetwilliam,  and  southern-wood,  and  ladies'  delights, 
and  bits  of  coriander  ;  when  that  good  lady  came  reluctantly  to  the 
unusual  conclusion  that  she  "  didn't  feel  hardly  well  enough  to  go 
to  meetin',  after  all." 

She  told  Gabriel  so,  when  he  came  in  with  his  accustomed  little 
offering,  and  found  her  sitting  pale,  uncertain,  and  unready,  a 
strange  thing,  indeed,  for  her,  by  the  kitchen  hearth.  The  farmer 
was  shaving  his  chin  by  the  looking-glass  that  tilted  forward  from 
the  wall  between  the  windows,  and  bore  above  it  the  common  and 
morally  appropriate  country  decoration, — a  bunch  of  peacocks' 
feathers.  Somebody  always  stayed  in  the  room  of  late  while  he 
performed  this  Sunday  morning  operation ;  and  Gabriel  thought 
at  first  that  his  mother  had  only  thus  been  detained  from  her  own 
dressing. 

"  There,  mother,"  he  said  cheerily, — he  was  always  tender  and 
cheery  to  her,  the  manly,  gracious-hearted  fellow, — as  he  and  the 


74  The  Gayworthys. 

sunshine  came  in  together  at  the  garden  door,  "  here's  your  posy. 
And  you  won't  have  much  time  to  spare.  The  bell's  just  struck. 
I'll  wait  here  to  see  you  off ;  or  drive,  if  you  and  father  like." 

The  old  man  turned  about  quickly,  as  Gabriel  seated  himself. 
There  was  an  angry,  suspicious  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"  What  are  ye  allers  waitin'  round  for,  hey  ?  Who  yer  watchin' 
of  ?  Can't  I  drive  ma'am  to  meetin's  well's  anybody  ?  " 

"  You  and  father'd  best  go  along  without  me,  I  guess,"  said 
Mrs.  Hartshorne.  "  I  don't  feel  quite  so  smart  as  common  to-day, 
somehow." 

Then  Gabriel  looked  anxiously  in  his  mother's  face,  and  noted 
the  paleness  of  it.  He  began  to  say  that  he  would  stay,  too  ;  but 
she  anticipated  his  words,  and  stopped  him. 

"  Mary  Makepeace'll  be  at  home.  I  shan't  want  anybody  else. 
And  you'd  best  both  go." 

Gabriel  saw  a  queer  look  flit  over  his  father's  face ;  an  expres- 
sion as  of  a  prisoner,  who,  through  the  inadvertence  or  mischance 
of  a  keeper,  might  perceive  an  opportunity  before  him.  He  had 
been  very  restless,  lately,  and  impatient  of  their  presence  ;  he  had 
had  constantly  an  eager,  watching  air,  as  if  what  he  wanted  were 
to  get  away.  From  the  beginning  of  the  alteration  in  him,  this 
had  been  its  peculiar  feature  ;  a  propensity  to  give  them  the  slip ; 
to  make  strange,  sudden  errands,  and  go  off  to  distances,  alone. 

Gabriel  wondered  if  his  mother  recollected  that  he  could  not 
sit  with  his  father  during  service, — that  he  would  be  left  to  himself 
in  the  great,  old-fashioned  pew ;  and  how  he  would  be  likely  to 
comport  himself.  The  presence  of  others,  however  he  might  chafe 
at  it,  seemed  a  force  that  held  him  to  his  old  habits  of  outward 
demeanor.  Gabriel  had  found  him  quite  wild  and  bewildered, 
once  or  twice,  of  late,  when  he  had  tracked  him  out,  in  his  ramblings 
away  from  home.  So  it  was  with  a  secret  apprehension  that  he 
set  off  with  him  to-day,  under  the  compulsion  of  circumstances, 
and  in  obedience  to  the  wish  of  his  mother. 

The  church-bell  swung  sweet  and  solemn  on  the  air,  as  they 
drove  along;  it  seemed  to  pulse  forth  a  deep  calm  that  should  reach 
into  souls.  Old  Mr.  Hartshorne  looked  placidly  forgetful,  pres- 
ently, of  his  momentary  excitement,  and  seemed  to  fall,  involun- 
tarily, into  the  old  Sabbath  mood.  Gabriel  took  courage.  We 
know  very  little,  I  think,  how  outward  sights  and  sounds  and 
habitudes  hold  us  safely  by  their  myriad  fine  and  subtle  threads, 
in  mental  poise.  How  the  whole  creation  travaileth  with  us,  and 
all  our  minutest  relations  are  adjusted,  lest  a  single  human  soul 
should  lose  its  wonderful  balance  and  consciousness,  and  be  lost. 
Let  us  take  care  how  we  discard  and  break  away,  despising,  in 
our  presumption,  the  value  of  that  wherewith  God,  by  His  su- 
premely-wise ordination  hath  hedged  and  environed  us.  A  sharp 
pain, — an  instant's  giddiness,  isolating  us  from  ordinary  percep- 
tions, sets  earth  and  heaven  shattering  and  whirling  to  our 


"  Gabriel  !  "  75 

thought.  A  calm  touch, — the  glance  resting  on  some  familiar, 
insignificant  object, — a  gentle  sound, — brings  back  the  delicate 
equilibrium,  as  by  electric  impulse,  to  the  disturbed  and  endangered 
brain.  We  know  not,  hourly,  how  we  are  saved,  or  what  we  are 
saved  from. 

It  is  from  an  instinct  of  the  spirit  which  touches  upon  this  truth 
rather  than  from  any  definite  apprehension,  that  children  of  fine, 
sensitive,  nervous  organization  dread  "  the  dark."  I  hold  it  an 
outrage  and  a  cruelty  to  thrust  them  relentlessly  into  this  void 
they  shrink  from.  The  soul  craves  things  sensible  and  local, 
whereto  to  anchor  itself.  The  first  gift  of  God  to  the  world  was 
light ;  the  dearest  promise  of  Christ  is  that  he  prepares  a  place 
for  us.  The  fearful  threat  to  the  unworthy  is  "  outer  darkness  "  ; 
an  apostle  hath  it — "  the  blackness  of  darkness  for  ever."  May 
there  be,  perhaps,  an  awful  literalness  in  the  phrasing — a  "  lost 
soul" ? 

Old  Mr.  Hartshorne  rode  up  to  the  church-door,  alighted  and 
walked  in,  like  any  other  of  the  comers.  Gabriel  fastened  the 
old  horse  under  the  shed,  and  went  up  to  his  seat  among  the 
singers. 

He  noticed,  as  he  glanced  down  toward  the  family  pew,  his 
father  fidget  a  little  with  the  hymn  books,  and  then  settle  himself 
more  quietly ;  looking  round  upon  his  neighbors  with  a  certain 
expression  of  simple  importance  and  self-appreciation,  such  as  a 
child  might  have,  sent  to  church,  exceptionally,  by  himself ;  as  if 
he  said,  "  You  see  I  am  quite  to  be  trusted."  Alternating  with 
wilfulness  and  petulance,  and  vagary,  there  often  showed  among 
the  symptoms  which  Gabriel  and  his  mother  watched  with  the 
keen,  silent  eye  of  anxious  love,  this  touching  air  of  half  conscious 
liability  to  go  somehow  wrong,  and  the  pride  of  refraining.  God 
only  knows  how  mind,  as  well  as  soul,  struggles  and  clings  before 
it  goes  down,  borne  under  by  some  fearful  influence  of  which  He 
alone  who  permits  it,  can  understand  the  might. 

The  prayers  and  hymns  and  reading  of  holy  words  began ; 
continued.  Gabriel  forgot,  by  and  by,  to  be  uneasy,  seeing,  when- 
ever he  looked  that  way,  his  father  quite  composed,  and  outwardly 
himself.  There  was  one  beside  him,  though,  who  read  his  every 
glance ;  who  felt  intuitively,  through  her  secret  sympathy,  his 
fears ;  who  watched  when  he  relaxed.  Ah  !  how  Joanna  Gay- 
worthy  was  repenting  there,  that  day,  that  she  had  not  seized, 
when  he  had  half  offered  it,  the  right  to  share  his  trouble,  and 
help  him  in  his  care !  And  now,  it  was  too  late.  He  would  never 
ask  again.  He  had  only  been  betrayed,  as  it  were,  into  that 
beginning  of  an  avowal,  which  he  had  resolved  within  himself, — 
how  truly  she  read  him  now ! — must  not  be  uttered,  because  he 
deemed  it  not  "  fair  and  right  to  ask,  as  things  were."  So  men 
defraud  women  of  their  dearest  rights ;  so  women  must  wait 
silently,  in  pain,  nor  dare  to  claim  them  ! 


76  The  Gayworthys. 

The  sermon  began.  It  was  a  "  revival  discourse,"  preached  by 
a  stranger  ;  an  exhortation  unstinted  in  all  the  technical  force  and 
coloring  of  like  discourses  as  such  professedly ;  sermons  that  in 
times  of  religious  excitement,  it  used  to  be  common  for  men  gifted 
in  that  specialty  to  go  starring  about  with  ;  starring,  some  of  them, 
at  least,  it  is  to  be  feared,  too  much  after  the  fashion  of  Samson's 
foxes  ;  a  fearful  picture  of  God's  wrath  ;  tremendous  warnings ; 
all  the  awful  imagery  of  Ancient  Hebrew  Writ,  from  Sinai  to  the 
final  thunders  of  the  latest  prophet  of  that  olden  dispensation  ; 
reiteration  of  the  text, — "escape  unto  the  mountains  ;"  a  placing 
of  God  and  man  over  against  each  other, — the  One  upon  His 
Throne  of  Judgment,  the  other  quaking,  cowering  beneath.  God's 
Spirit  was  there,  among  the  people,  doubtless ;  there  were  hearts 
in  that  assembly,  touched,  softened,  tender,  who  had  come  up  ask- 
ing humbly,  secretly,  for  bread  from  heaven  to  feed  their  needs. 
But  this  man — did  he  not  rather  hurl  stones  among  them  ?  There 
were  souls  awestruck,  scared ;  there  were  nerves  thrilled,  brains 
fevered,  as  they  listened  ,  was  there  a  single  spirit  won  back  into 
the  Father's  bosom  ?  Oh,  be  careful,  ye  who  come  with  Law  and 
Gospel  in  either  hand,  and  on  your  lips  cursing  and  blessing  ;  be 
careful  how  ye  apportion,  and  mete  out,  and  construe.  It  is  a 
fearful  thing  to  deal  recklessly  with  the  feeble  minds  and  hesitat- 
ing hearts  of  men  !  How  know  ye  what  ye  may  be  doing  with 
those  differently  and  delicately,  perhaps  perilously,  attuned  moods 
and  vital  crises  of  human  experience  ? 

"  Escape  for  your  life  !     Escape  unto  the  mountains  !" 

The  voice  rang  out  once  again, — startlingly,  sonorously.  A 
hand  reached  over,  almost  in  the  same  moment,  and  laid  itself 
with  a  quick  pressure,  on  Gabriel  Hartshorne's  arm.  A  hurried 
breath  came  with  it, — 

"  Gabriel !     Your  father  !  " 

The  young  man  leaped  to  his  feet ;  gave  one  look  below ;  the 
pew  was  empty.  There  was  a.  stir  of  heads ;  a  pause  in  the 
preaching,  and  Squire  Lau'ton  and  Deacon  Gibson  were  moving 
quickly  toward  the  door.  Gabriel  sprang  to  the  gallery  stairs  and 
rushed  down. 

This  was  what  had  happened.  The  poor,  misty  brain  that  had 
been  soothed  by  the  Sunday  bells,  and  by  hymns  and  prayers,  half 
followed,  perhaps,  but  lifting  in  a  dim  way,  his  instincts  to  the  One 
Strength  and  Safety,  had  felt  a  hot,  sudden  quiver  at  the  first 
utterance  of  those  detached  words  which  the  preacher  had  sepa- 
rated from  their  connection  and  chosen  for  his  text.  They  had 
struck  upon,  and  chimed  dangerously  with  the  morbid  prehension 
of  his  mind.  The  old  man  moved  himself  along  the  seat,  to  where 
the  window  recessed  itself  into  the  wall,  and  stood  open,  letting  in 
the  summer  air.  He  looked  out,  away,  upon  the  everlasting  hills 
that  framed  the  glowing  landscape.  So  gazing, — his  mind  and 
fancy  wandering  toward  their  mysterious  distances, — his  ears  took 


"  Gabriel  !  "  77 

in  mechanically  the  burning,  urgent  words  of  the  sermon.  He  felt 
no  religious  fear;  but.  as  the  sentences  fell,  they  played  upon  that 
one  diseased  chord ;  they  stirred  wildly,  like  fierce  music,  that 
physical  unreasoning  impulse.  He  moved  his  head,  with  quick, 
short,  furtive  turns,  to  right  and  left.  He  watched  for  a  moment 
when  no  eye  should  be  upon  him,  he  changed  his  place,  softly, 
again,  and  seated  himself  in  the  window,  with  his  arm  upon  the 
sill.  Then  he  held  himself  innocently  quiet,  for  some  moments, 
with  the  cunning  of  actual,  developed  insanity,  looking  round  upon 
the  near  neighbors  who  had  noticed  his  movement,  with  a  pecul- 
iarly open,  placid  expression,  till  they  turned  their  eyes  away,  and 
he  felt  himself  again  alone. 

Close  by,  outside,  pulling  at  her  halter,  and  uttering,  now  and 
then,  a  quick,  impatient  whinny,  stood  Newell  Gibson's  fiery,  half- 
broken  young  mare,  harnessed  to  a  light  gig.  She,  too,  wanted  to 
get  away.  Every  suggestion  of  word  and  scene, — even  of  animal 
sound  and  movement,  at  once  an  incentive,  with  its  blind,  brute 
sympathy,  and  a  prompting  to  new,  wild  purpose, — conspired, 
strangely  and  fatally,  to  quicken  the  old  man's  fast  maddening 
fancy. 

He  was  spied  upon — he  was  restrained.  He  knew  he  was  going 
wrong,  and  he  could  not  help  himself.  "  Escape  ?  "  It  was  just 
what  he  wanted  to  do. 

The  impassioned,  vehement  sentences  of  the  discourse  swept  on. 
There  was  a  breathless  hush  in  the  old  church.  All  eyes,  save  the 
straying  eyes  of  children, — and,  by  this  time,  many  of  these  were 
shut  in  sleep, — were  fixed  upon  the  speaker.  He  lifted  his  left 
arm,  and  stretched  it  out,  right  over  toward  those  blue,  shadowy 
peaks  that  filled  the  horizon,  and  the  words  pealed  forth  again. 

"Escape!  Escape,  for  your  life!  Look  not  behind  you,  nor 
stay  in  all  the  plain  !  Escape  unto  the  mountain,  lest  ye  be  con- 
sumed !" 

There  was  a  sudden  sound, — a  leap  outside ;  people  started, 
and  turned.  It  was  at  this  instant  that  Joanna  had  touched 
Gabriel's  arm. 

When  he  reached  the  great  outer  door  of  the  meeting-house, 
springing  down  the  last  six  steps  of  the  steep  gallery-stairs  and 
dashing  across  the  vestibule, — he  saw  Newell  Gibson's  mare  fling 
herself  by,  at  a  gallop,  the  light  gig  rocking  and  bounding  after 
her,  down  the  hill.  His  father  sat  in  the  frail  vehicle,  erect,  his 
gray  hair  floating  back  in  the  wind  from  his  uncovered  head. 

Gone  ! — To  his  death  ?     It  seemed  so. 

Another  sound  of  wheels  came  round  the  building.  Squire 
Lawton  and  Deacon  Gibson,  in  the  Squire's  open  wagon.  They 
pulled  up,  for  an  instant,  as  they  saw  Gabriel  standing  pale,  hor- 
rified, uncertain  for  the  moment,  on  the  stone  step  before  the  door. 

"  Will  ye  get  in,  Gabe?  "  The  deacon  spoke  with  the  sudden, 
undefined  distance  in  his  familiar  address,  that  people  assume  in- 


78  The  Gayworthys. 

stinctively,  toward  one  fearfully  stricken.  "  We'll  do  the  best  we 
can.  'Pon  my  soul,  I'm  sorry  for  ye  !" 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  another  voice  at  his  side.  "  It'll  do  no 
harm  to  be  a  minute  or  two  behind. — We  mustn't  make  a  chase  of 
it."  Dr.  Gayworthy  addressed  the  last  words  to  the  two  men  in 
the  wagon.  '  You'd  better  take  the  turnpike,  over  to  the  crossing  ; 
and  drive  as  fast  as  you  please.  We'll  follow  the  old  gentleman." 

Gabriel  turned  mutely,  and  accompanied  the  Doctor  to  his 
chaise. 

There  was  no  word  spoken  between  them,  as  they  followed, 
along  windings  and  descents,  the  headlong  course  of  the  runaway 
animal ;  noting  the  tracks  of  her  fierce  hoofs  that  had  clutched  the 
gravel  in  mad  leaps,  and  the  swerving  traces  of  the  wheels,  as  the 
vehicle  had  swayed  from  side  to  side  of  the  narrow  country  road, 
most  marvelously  escaping  immediate  overturn.  What  should 
they  find  at  last  ?  For  nearly  a  mile,  the  road,  though  in  no  part 
actually  precipitous,  tended  downward  all  the  way, — no  great 
length  visible  before  them  at  any  given  point.  Beyond  this,  a 
long  ascent  traced  itself  to  clear  view  up  the  slopes  of  an  opposite 
hill ;  and  there,  presently,  if  it  were  possible  that  horse  and  vehicle 
should  hold  so  long  together,  they  would  again  catch  glimpse  of 
them.  Over  that  hill,  also,  at  right  angles,  stretched  the  turnpike, 
crossing  just  beneath  the  brow  upon  the  hither  side.  There  lay 
the  bare  chance  of  safety.  If  the  two  who  had  gone  that  shorter 
way,  could  head  the  creature,  slackened  in  her  speed  with  taking 
the  long  hill,  it  might  yet  be  well.  But  the  still,  white  line  lay 
dustily  distinct  against  the  green  mountain-side,  and  nothing 
moved  upon  it  yet.  Something  must  have  already  happened. 
There  was  an  ugly  turn  by  the  brook,  and  the  bridge  was  narrow. 
Gabriel  grew  paler  as  they  came  down  into  the  shaded  hollow, 
still  following  the  wild  trail  that  must  end  soon,  and  losing  sight, 
now,  of  the  way  beyond. 

Up  in  the  meeting-house, — the  momentary  disturbance  exter- 
nally composed, — the  minister  was  closing  his  discourse  to  restless 
ears  that  listened  no  longer ;  and  men  and  women  waited  fever- 
ishly through  the  short  prayer  and  benediction,  unheeding  either, 
in  the  eager  human  interest  that  had  laid  hold  of  them.  All  the 
little  world  of  Hilbury  knew  that  half-kept  secret  of  the  Hartshorne 
farmhouse,  now. 

Gabriel  thought  of  it,  even  in  those  short  instants  of  dread ; 
thought  of  Joanna  in  her  seat  there  in  the  gallery ;  felt,  still,  the 
touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  the  friendly  sympathy  of  it  in 
his  soul.  He  could  never  sit  and  sing  there  with  her,  again.  If 
his  father  lived,  he  must  never  leave  him,  now. 

So  they  kept  their  way  down,— silent,  breathless, — to  where  they 
came  upon  it  all.  The  shattered  gig,  thrown  on  its  side,  crashed 
up  against  the  handrail  of  the  bridge,  where  it  seemed  to  have  been 
dragged  and  caught, — a  broken  shaft  and  splinters  of  the  whiffle- 


Another  Week.  79 

tree,  lying  beyond, — some  bits  of  torn  harness, — the  horse  gone. 
This  side  the  brook,  across  a  decayed  log  overgrown  to  a  bank 
with  moss  and  weeds,  a  prostrate  figure, — and  a  gray  head  flung 
back,  with  closed  eyes.  One  arm  lay  bent,  beneath  the  body. 

Gabriel  raised  the  poor,  brain-sick,  unconscious  head,  and  held 
it  against  his  breast.  Kind,  skilful  hands  moved  and  manipulated 
body  and  limbs ;  drawing,  carefully,  the  limp  arm  from  its 
unnatural  position. 

"  Both  bones  of  the  forearm  broken.  And  that  seems  all. 
That,  and  falling  just  here,  is  what  has  saved  him."  These  were 
the  first  words  spoken. 

"  Saved  him, — for  what  ?  "  groaned  Gabriel,  his  long  trouble 
speaking  itself,  at  last,  from  pale,  dry  lips,  and  imploring  eyes. 

"We'll  hope,"  said  the  doctor,  cheerily.  "And  now,  I'd  rather 
he  wouldn't  come  to,  till  we  get  him  home.  He  won't  remember 
how  it  came  about ;  and  that's  better.  There's  the  wagon." 

"  If  my  mother  only  mightn't  know  it  all !  "  cried  Gabriel. 

She  never  did. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ANOTHER  WEEK. 

GABRIEL,  leaning  over  his  father's  bed,  heard  the  click  of  the 
bones  as  they  came  into  place  under  the  doctor's  grasp.  At  the 
same  moment,  the  old  man  opened  his  eyes.  There  was  a  quieter 
look  in  them,  though  with  a  vague  amaze,  than  they  had  worn  for 
long. 

"  Where  am  I  ?     What  ye  doin'  to  me  ?  "  he  asked,  feebly. 

"You've  had  an  accident,  and  hurt  your  arm.  Lie  still,"  replied 
the  Doctor. 

"  An  accident  ?     I  donno  nothin'  about  it.     Where's  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I'm  here,"  said  his  wife,  standing  on  the  other  side.  But  her 
white  face  grew  whiter,  as  she  spoke,  and  she  would  have  dropped, 
if  Mary  Makepeace  had  not  held  her. 

"  She's  clear  beat  out ;  and  her  head's  been  bad  all  day,  and 
she  must  go  to  bed,  herself,  this  minute,"  said  Mary  Makepeace 
leading,  or  mostly,  lifting  her,  along.  Mrs.  Hartshorne  yielded, 
in  a  sick  dizziness  that  made  the  faces  round  her  all  turn  strange, 
and  the  look  of  the  kitchen,  as  she  moved  across  it  to  the  little 
bedroom  on  the  other  side,  like  a  place  she  had  never  been  in 
before ;  and  presently  the  Doctor  stood  by  her,  in  turn,  feeling  her 
pulse  gravely,  and  ordered  that  nobody  should  talk  to  her,  and 
that  all  the  questioning  neighbors  in  the  front  room  should  be  told 
to  go  away ;  and  promised  that  Prue  should  come  over,  directly, 
with  something  that  she  must  take. 


8o  The  Gay  wort  hys. 

So  that  week  began. 

A  week  of  ceaseless  watching,  and  nursing,  and  fear.  Gabriel, 
except  his  coat,  had  never  his  Sunday  clothes  off,  through  it  all. 
They  couldn't  keep  it  from  the  old  man  that  his  wife  was  very 
ill.  That,  and  the  corporal  shock  which  he  had  suffered,  seemed 
to  suspend  the  workings  of  diseased  fancy.  He  lay,  in  a  childish 
sort  of  contented  helplessness,  asking,  now  and  then,  how  "  ma'am  " 
was,  and  "  when  she  was  coming."  In  all  this  time,  he  recollected 
nothing,  apparently,  of  that  which  he  himself  had  done.  How  it 
would  be  with  him,  by  and  by,  the  doctor  could  not  promise  ; 
though  he  still  said,  "  We'll  hope."  For  the  present,  he  was  simply, 
as  it  were,  benumbed,  subdued. 

Joanna  Gayworthy  was  angry  in  her  secret  heart  with  Prue, 
for  the  privilege  she  had  of  entering  fearlessly  the  afflicted  home, 
and  ministering  there,  day  and  night.  Because  she  was  a  widow, 
and  almost  forty,  she  could  do  it.  She  was  "  just  the  person  to 
be  there,"  as  people  said.  What  great  difference  did  the  years 
make  ?  She  felt  herself  grown  old  enough,  of  late,  if  that  were 
all.  And  her  hopeless  life  looked  to  her  like  a  long  widowhood 
just  entered.  But  she  must  sit  at  home, — she  and  Rebecca,  whom 
she  almost  hated,  too,  for  her  calmness,  and  keep  down  all  her 
restless  thoughts  and  questionings,  and  not  dare  even  to  ask  what 
she  most  wanted  to  be  told,  when  the  others  now  and  then  came 
in  ;  seeming  indifferent  almost,  through  fear  of  showing  too  much. 
She  wanted  to  know  how  Gabriel  looked,  and  what  he  said ;  she 
wanted  to  know  if  anybody  said  words  of  comfort  to  him,  now 
and  then,  as  there  ought  to  be  somebody  to  do  ;  if  anybody  made 
him  eat  and  rest ;  or  whether  he  too  were  wearing  himself  ill, 
with  nobody  to  notice.  She  wanted, — oh,  this  was  not  half ! 
What  her  woman's  heart  wanted,  was  to  go  to  him,  in  spite  of  all ; 
to  take  her  stand  beside  him ;  to  tell  him  that  his  pain  was  her 
pain,  and  that  she  had  come  to  bear  it  with  him,  for  that  she 
would  not  be  divided  from  him  now  ! — What  a  strange  world  and 
way  we  live  in  !  This  she  did  not  do  ;  she  held  herself  back  with 
a  fierce  might,  because  she  must ;  because  the  words  had  never 
been  spoken, — because  she  had  stopped  them,  frivolously,  when 
she  knew  they  were  on  his  lips, — that  should  have  given  her  this 
right ;  because  what  another  even  like  her  might  have  done,  in 
simple  neighborly  kindness,  it  was  quite  impossible  for  her,  with 
her  secret  consciousness,  to  do. 

Prue  came  and  went ;  Rebecca  asked,  sometimes,  if  she  could 
not  do  something  to  help  or  relieve  her.  Prue  always  answered, 
"  no  ;  it  was  not  necessary.  She  and  Mary  Makepeace  were  get- 
ting along  quite  well."  Joanna,  if  she  had  dared  to  say  one  word 
at  all, — she  thought  so  to  herself, — would  never  have  been  put  off 
in  that  tame  way  ! 

"  About  the  same  !  "  Who  has  not  known  the  agonizing  insig- 
nificance and  delay  of  that  sick-room  bulletin,  which  denies  not 


Another  Week.  81 

hope,  yet,  day  by  day,  lets  fear  settle  down  more  heavily  ?  Ga- 
briel heard  it  from  the  doctor,  at  each  frequent  visit ;  Prue  repeated 
it,  in  the  intervals,  at  each  asking  look  from  him,  and  to  the  old 
man's  queries.  "  Will  nobody  tell  me  anything  more  ? "  his 
thought  questioned,  bitterly.  Yet  he  dared  not  press  them  to  say 
more. 

Joanna  heard  it  till  she  ceased  to  make  inquiry.  "  What  is  the 
use  ?  "  she  cried  out,  vehemently,  to  Rebecca.  "  They  won't  tell 
anything,  till  it  tells  itself." 

That  day  came.  On  Saturday,  Prue  came  back,  needed  no 
more. 

"  Here,  mother,  is  your  posy,"  Gabriel  said  again,  through  sobs, 
on  Sunday,  kneeling  at  her  side.  They  were  the  last  week's  with- 
ered flowers.  He  found  them  in  his  mother's  drawer  with  the 
folded  muslin  pelerine  as  she  had  put  them  away, — who  knows  with 
what  foreboding  ?  He  laid  them,  reverently,  on  the  dead  hands 
that  never  would  reach  out  for  posy  more,  and  went  away  into  the 
garden,  to  gather  her  yet  one, — the  last. 

On  Monday,  all  the  neighbors  came,  from  all  the  country-side, 
and  the  church-bell  tolled,  and  they  buried  her. 

When  everybody  else  was  there,  Joanna  could  come  too.  Yes, 
11!. j  any  common  curious  acquaintance, — the  motherless  girl  who 
had  loved  Gabriel's  mother  secretly,  as  if  she  were  her  own.  To 
stand  there  in  the  hushed  and  crowded  parlor,  to  hear  the  prayer, 
and  to  struggle  against  tears,  till  she  looked,  and  wondered  if  she 
were  grown  cold,  and  stony,  and  unfeeling, — to  see  Gabriel  go  by, 
with  bared  head,  unwitting  of  her  presence,  separated  from  her 
and  all  by  the  sacred  isolation  of  his  great  grief,  and  then  to  go 
home,  having  never  said  a  word  to  him  through  all,  since  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  called  him  by  his  name,  a  week  ago, 
in  the  church  gallery. 

The  old  man  wept  feebly,  when  Gabriel  told  him  tenderly,  that 
they  had  lost  her.  Then  he  grew  quieter  than  before,  scarcely 
speaking  ;  and  seemed  to  notice  little  of  what  went  on  about  him. 
He  slept  a  good  deal,  during  the  next  two  days.  It  was  on  Tues- 
day, just  at  evening,  that  he  turned  his  head,  with  an  earnest  look, 
toward  Gabriel,  as  he  sat  by  the  bedside ;  and  spoke,  slowly,  most 
like  one  awaking  from  a  dream. 

"  Well. — She's  gone.     Ain't  she  ?  " 

Gabriel  bent  his  head,  and  groaned,  "  Ay  !  " 

"  Yes.  She's  gone.  She  can't  take  care  of  me,  now.  And  I'm, 
— Gabriel, — there's  something  slipping  away  from  me,  like  I've 
felt  as  if  it  was  a  goin',  this  long  time.  But  I've  held  on.  Yes, 
I've  held  on.  I  didn't  want, — Gabriel, — oh,  dear  !  to  give  quite  up 
and  let  it  go.  And  so  I've  been  contrary  and  fractious.  I  ain't 
now.  But  it's  going ;  and  there's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you, 
Gabriel,  first,  quick.  You  mustn't  let  me  plague  you,  when  I  get 
worse.  Send  me  away  somewhere  ;  I  wanted,  sometimes,  to  get 


82  The  Gayworthys. 

off ;  there's  places,  you  know, — where  they  take  care  of  folks, — 
that — go  out  of  their  minds  ! " 

He  said  these  last  words  in  a  whisper,  as  if  so,  in  the  avowal  of 
his  strange,  secret  consciousness,  he  gathered  up  the  last  strength 
of  his  failing  faculties,  at  the  moment  he  also  let  go  the  sole  cord 
holding  him  to  safety ;  and  looked  up  into  his  son's  face  with  an 
expression  at  once  bewildered,  helpless,  pleading,  and  defiant. 

Then  the  young  man  stood  up,  in  his  strength. 

"Father,"  he  said,  calmly,  "I  don't  think  that  is  going  to 
happen  to  you.  And — whether  or  no — here  I  am  ;  and  here  I 
stay,  and  stand  by  you,  as  long  as  we  both  live ;  and  no  man — 
nor  woman — shall  hinder,  or  come  between.  So  help  me,  God  !  " 

The  poor,  harassed  intellect  that  was  just  casting  itself  adrift, 
caught  at  the  brave,  loving  words  of  promise,  and  struggled  back. 
The  old  man  laid  his  hand — the  one  hand  he  could  move — in 
Gabriel's.  His  eye  softened.  There  came  a  tenderness  into  it — a 
trust — a  gleam  of  peace.  "  Will  you  ?  "  he  said  in  such  a  tone  as 
a  child  might.  "  You  was  always  a  good  boy,  Gabriel." 

"  He  has  passed  a  mental  crisis,"  Dr.  Gayworthy  said,  afterward. 
"  He  will  never  be  quite  himself  again.  But  the  trouble  has 
taken  a  different  turn.  He  may  live  for  years, — the  longer  for 
this  feebleness  of  brain,  in  fact, — and  be  no  worse  than  he  is 
now." 

This,  then,  was  the  likelihood  that  lay  in  the  future.  And  Mr. 
Hartshorne,  though  I  have  spoken  of  him  as  his  neighbors  did, — 
and  as  it  is  the  fashion  of  New  England  country-folks  to  speak, 
even  of  a  man  of  forty,  if  he  have  a  son  arrived  at  manly  estate, — 
was  not,  literally,  an  old  man.  He  was  yet  under  sixty.  He  might 
live  twenty  years. 

Yet  Gabriel  Hartshorne,  with  never  a  thought  of  the  how  long, 
bound  a  vow  upon  his  heart,  and  took  up  this,  his  cross. 

The  next  Sunday,  there  were  prayers  in  church,  for  "  the  young 
brother,  sorely  and  doubly  stricken." 

Nobody  prayed  for  Joanna.  But  she  prayed — she  who  best 
knew  how — out  of  her  pain — for  him. 

Also,  that  same  day,  the  banns  of  marriage  were  published 
between  Anastasia  Lawton  and  Gordon  King. 

I  have  not  done  with  my  two  young  sisters.  But  this — the  story 
of  their  youth — is  told.  Many  a  life-story  ends  to  human  knowledge, 
as  abruptly.  Fate  does  not  round  and  finish  all,  in  the  first,  few 
years  of  mortal  experience.  Things  don't  go  on,  in  eventful  suc- 
cession, day  by  day,  in  the  real  years,  as  they  do,  page  by  page,  in 
a  novel.  God  gives  us  intervals  ;  and  we  can  neither  skip  nor  turn 
the  leaves  faster  than  they  write  themselves.  Threads  drop  mid- 
way in  the  web,  and  only  the  Heavenly  Weaver  can  find  or  reunite 
them.  We  wait,  and  grow  gray  with  waiting,  for  the  word,  the 
seeming  accident,  the  trifle,  that  may  or  may  never,  He  knows, — 
come  into  the  monotony  of  our  chilled  existence,  and  alter  it  all 


Mrs.  Gair  Writes  Home.  83 

for  us ;  joining  a  living  fiber  once  again,  that  may  yet  thrill  with 
joy,  to  that  we  lost,  far  back  in  the  old  Past,  wherein  it  throbbed 
so  keenly. 

But  you  will  know,  now,  as  you  see  them  so,  while  younger  lives 
press  forward  to  the  front  and  claim  the  fresher  interest, — how 
it  came  to  pass  that,  years  after,  there  were  these  two  maiden 
sisters,  counting  uneventful  days  in  the  old  home  at  Hilbury. 

All  that  most  people  knew  was  that  "  there  had  been  once,  folks 
thought,  a  sort  of  kindness  between  Gabriel  Hartshorne  and 
Joanna  Gayworthy,  but  it  never  came  to  anything;  and  after  his 
father's  mind  failed,  and  his  mother  died,  he  seemed  to  give  up 
all  thoughts  of  marrying,  and  just  settled  down  to  taking  care  of 
the  old  man  and  looking  after  the  farm.  As  to  Rebecca,  she 
never  was  anyway  like  other  young  people.  She  was  a  born  saint 
if  the  Lord  ever  made  one." 


CHAPTER  XI. 
MRS.  GAIR  WRITES  HOME. 

THREE  years  after,  Mrs  Vorse  sat  reading  a  letter,  one  day. 
This  was  it. 

DEAR  SISTER  PRUE  : 

The  golden  russets  and  the  butter  came  safely  to  hand.  Thank 
father  for  them,  with  my  love.  I  write  my  letter  to  you,  because 
I  have  owed  you  one  this  long  time ;  and  because  I  have  some 
things  to  say,  a  little  particularly,  to  yourself.  I  could  not  match 
your  silk,  near  enough ;  the  old  gros  and  granites  are  all  gone  out 
of  existence  ;  but  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  manage  for  you  accord- 
ing to  my  own  judgment,  and  have  used  the  money  you  sent 
towards  a  full  dress  pattern  of  new,  plain  silk.  What  was  want- 
ing, I  made  up ;  and  wish  you  would  accept  it  as  a  little  present 
from  me.  Joanna  is  well,  but  I  don't  think  she  is  altogether  con- 
tented. I  am  afraid  I  shan't  make  out  to  keep  her  much  longer. 
What  under  the  sun,  I  wonder,  can  make  a  girl  like  her  want  to 
stay,  year  in  and  year  out,  in  a  place  like  Hilbury  ?  She'll  go 
back,  anyway,  in  February.  That  she's  determined  on,  and  when 
she  has  once  made  up  her  mind  to  a  thing,  she's  as  "  set  as  a 
meeting-house."  To  tell  the  truth,  the  meeting-house  seems  to 
be  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  she  thinks  she  never  can  be  spared  out  of 
that  singing-gallery.  You  have  lost  a  good  many  of  your  leading 
singers,  one  way  and  another,  within  a  few  years,  to  be  sure  ; 
Eliza  Prouty  being  married,  and  Stacy  Lawton,  and  Gabriel 
Hartshorne  giving  up  that,  as  he  has  everything  else,  to  take  care 
of  his  father.  Well,  he  has  been  faithful  to  his  duty,  if  a  son 


84  The  Gayworthys. 

ever  was.  Joanna  tells  me — I  get  things  out  of  her  by  degrees, 
with  questions,  though  she  don't  somehow  run  the  news  right  off 
the  reel  as  she  used  to ;  she's  sobered  down  wonderfully — that 
they  come  to  meeting  regularly  together,  and  sit  there  in  the  old 
pew,  and  that  the  old  man  keeps  close  to  Gabe,  and  sits  half  the 
time  holding  his  hand,  as  if  he  couldn't  be  near  enough,  or  have 
enough  of  him ;  and  that,  communion  days,  Gabriel  takes  the 
bread  from  the  plate,  and  gives  it  to  his  father,  and  holds  the 
cup  to  his  lips ;  and  that  one  day,  the  old  man  broke  the  bread  in 
two,  and  gave  half  of  it  back  to  Gabe,  just  as  a  baby  might  put 
the  spoon  up  to  its  mother,  feeding  it ;  and  Gabe  took  it,  and 
looked  at  it  a  minute,  with  a  face  as  if  the  tears  were  coming,  and 
then  ate  it ;  though  he  is  not  a  church  member.  I  got  this  out  of 
her,  by  asking  first  one  thing  and  then  another  about  how  they 
managed,  and  saying  things  myself,  until  she  warmed  up  all  at 
once,  as  if  she  couldn't  help  it,  and  told  me  the  story  ;  and  then 
she  stopped  herself  in  a  sudden,  provoked  kind  of  a  way,  and 
wouldn't  say  another  word  about  anybody.  She  does  hate  so 
what  she  calls  Hilbury  gossip.  Well,  here  I  am,  running  on  about 
Hilbury  folks, — I  always  do  when  I  get  agoing, — and  forgetting 
my  particular  business.  I  think,  and  so  does  Mr.  Gair,  that  father 
might  let  Gershom  come  down  here  this  spring  and  make  us  that 
visit.  He  was  to  have  come,  you  know,  three  years  ago,  only 
Eben  and  Huldah  went  away,  and  you  all  thought  he  couldn't  be 
spared.  I  suppose  he  couldn't ;  but  some  mothers  would  have 
worked  it,  somehow.  I  think,  if  anything,  Prue,  you're  a  little  too 
conscientious  about  making  Gershom  do  all  and  more  than  father 
seems  to  expect  of  him.  Father  is  getting  old,  now ;  and  old 
folks  are  apt  to  be  a  little  one-sided  and  unreasonable  if  you  humor 
them  in  everything.  And  it  isn't  quite  fair  to  the  boy,  in  more 
ways  than  one.  He  ought  to  see  something  of  the  world,  to  begin 
with;  and  besides,  folks  ivill  think,  maybe,  (I  say  it  because  I 
know  as  well  what  you  really  are,  and  how  you  would  despise  any- 
thing that  was  not  more  than  above-board,)  that  you  are  keeping 
him  hanging  round,  with  some  hopes  about  the  property.  I  think, 
most  likely,  father  would  be  willing  to  let  him  come  now,  when  he 
gets  through  at  Winthorpe  Academy;  and  he  will  have  a  little 
time  to  spare  between  that  and  college ;  if  you  and  father  have 
quite  settled  that  he  is  to  go ;  which  I  wouldn't,  unless  the  boy's 
own  mind  was  bent  upon  it ;  it  does  more  harm  than  good,  other- 
wise. To  tell  the  truth,  though  I  know  father  makes  everything  of 
him,  I  don't  know  that  it  might  not  be  just  as  well  to  let  him  see 
that  you  and  Gershom  don't  take  it  entirely  for  granted  that  he  is 
to  provide  for  him.  I  shouldn't  say  as  much,  so  plainly,  to  every- 
body ;  but  I  know  you  are  so  independent  that  you  would  never 
bear  to  seem  anything  else,  and  I  should  feel  just  the  same  in 
your  place.  You  needn't  show  this  letter,  of  course  ;  or  mention 
what  I  have  said ;  you  would  not  be  likely  to ;  and  I  hope  you 


Mrs.  Gair  Writes  Home.  85 

always  tear  up  all  my  letters ;  it  is  never  worth  while  to  keep 
them,  and  if  they  are  at  all  confidential,  it  is  best  not  to  leave  them 
lying  about  for  people  to  get  hold  of  who  are  no  way  concerned. 
I  don't  mean  to  interfere ;  only  we  stand  ready,  Mr.  Gair  and  I, 
to  give  Gershom  any  opportunities  we  can,  and  I  want  you  to  know 
it.  And  if  he  could  come  and  stay  here  awhile  this  spring,  it  would 
be  a  kindness  to  us ;  for  Say,  you  know,  is  lonesome,  and  she 
thinks  everything  of  him,  and  he  is  always  so  much  company  for 
her ;  and,  having  no  boy  of  our  own,  we  naturally  think  a  great 
deal  of  Gershom.  In  fact,  as  father  said  once,  "  he's  all  the  boy 
we've  got,"  and  I  think  it  will  be  who  shall  have  the  most  of  him. 
You  can  consider  of  this,  and  if  you  think  well  of  it,  you  can  tell 
father  we  have  asked  you  to  let  him  come,  and  we  shall  be  glad  to 
see  him  at  any  time  that  may  be  convenient.  Perhaps  father  will 
come  down  after  Joanna,  and  bring  him  along  then. 

I  had  some  other  things  to  say,  but  I  have  filled  and  crossed 
my  sheet,  and  must  let  them  wait  till  another  time.  Hoping  to 
hear  from  you  soon,  I  am 

Your  affectionate  sister,  JANE  GAIR. 

Mrs.  Gair's  letter,  you  see,  was  by  no  means  a  masterpiece,  Mrs. 
Gair  herself  was  not  a  masterpiece.  Yet  she  managed  to  carry 
out  her  little  selfishnesses,  and  do  her  little  mischiefs,  and  set  going, 
in  a  small  way,  what  grew  to  be  quite  sufficient  evils  in  the  end. 
It  doesn't  take  2igreat  scoundrel,  or  whatever  is  the  feminine  of 
that, — dictionary  men  have  been  too  chivalrous  to  tell  us, — to 
accomplish  every  separate  bit  of  Satan's  work  that  gets  done  in 
the  world.  Catherine  de  Medicis  may  be  wanted  for  one  job,  but 
Jane  Gair  will  very  well  answer  for  another. 

There  was  an  inconsistency,  somehow,  in  the  woman  who  could 
write  just  such  a  letter  as  that.  The  old  home  feeling, — for  Mrs. 
Gair  said  truth  when  she  declared  that  she  couldn't  help  "  running 
on  about  Hilbury  folks  when  she  once  got  agoing," — the  capacity 
for  appreciating  a  nobleness  in  another, — the  little  heart-touch  in 
her  words  as  she  recounted  what  Joanna  had  told  her  of  the 
Hartshornes. — all  this  was  strangely  enough  mixed  up  with  a  very 
mean  purpose  of  her  own.  People  seem,  often,  in  a  marvelous 
way,  to  set  themselves  in  contrast  with  themselves,  and  not  to  per- 
ceive it.  Many  a  man  to-day  cheers  lustily  the  old  flag  that 
heroes  bear  back  from  battle,  having  yet  no  idea  of  periling  a 
button  for  it,  himself,  that  he  can  help ;  nay,  calculating  its  chances 
and  mischances  selfishly,  studying  the  bulletin  as  a  price-current. 
The  same  style  of  human  nature  comes  out  identical  under  great 
variety  and  degree  of  test.  Jane  Gair  could  discern  the  greatness 
of  Gabriel  Hartshorne's  devotion  ;  she  could  even  speak  of  it  with 
a  little  flash  of  enthusiasm  ;  yet  turn  deliberately  to  her  own  intent 
of  winning  away  the  chief  dependence  and  comfort  of  her  own 
old  father's  declining  years.  Only,  she  thought  she  knew  better 


86  The  Gayworthys. 

than  himself  what  was  really  best  in  the  matter.  That  is,  she 
told  herself  she  thought  so,  One  must  go  down  very  deep  to  find 
the  true  throbbing  of  the  mainspring,  when  once  motives  and 
reasonings  begin  to  double  and  twist  themselves  within  us.  The 
real  thing  she  was  going  to  do — the  real  thing  she  meant  to  do — 
was,  in  plain  words,  to  unsettle  Gershom's  mind  if  she  could,  and 
lead  him  to  disappoint  her  father's  intentions  concerning  him ;  to 
incite  his  love  of  adventure  and  boyish  independence  of  spirit  to 
some  act  or  manifestation  that  should  overturn  the  Doctor's  plans, 
and  decide  a  different  future  for  him ;  perhaps,  even,  alienate  the 
two  utterly.  This  was  the  secret,  unworded  thought ;  overlaid 
and  represented  by  argument  that  "  the  boy  ought  to  know  his 
own  mind,  or  he'd  only  be  a  greater  disappointment  in  the  end ; 
that  if  he  really  wanted  to  go  to  college,  looking  forward,  after 
that,  to  driving  a  doctor's  chaise  round  the  old  Hilbury  roads,  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life,  she  certainly  wouldn't  do  anything  to 
prevent  it ;  but  it  wasn't  likely  he'd  be  contented  with  that,  after 
he'd  got  ready  for  it ;  and  what  was  more,  her  father  wouldn't 
find  himself  quite  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  up  and  make  way,  when 
it  came  to  the  point  as  he  might  fancy  now ;  old  men  never  did  ; 
and  it  would  come  to  the  point,  and  he'd  have  to  do  it  in  half  a 
dozen  years  or  so,  or  else,  there'd  be  Gershom,  standing  round, 
waiting  and  spoiling,  till  he  should  step  out  of  his  shoes  and  leave 
them  to  him.  There  never  was  anything  more  miserable  than 
that." 

"  Why,  it  would  be  enough  to  fairly  shorten  his  days,  to  let  him 
settle  down  into  the  feeling  that  his  work  was  almost  done,  and 
somebody  else  was  getting  ready  to  take  hold.  It  would  be  better 
for  both  that  Gershom  should  go  his  own  way,  if  father'd  only  think 
so." 

"  And  then,  very  likely,  it  would  make  some  difference  about  that 
bit  of  paper  she  had  seen  signed  and  laid  away,  three  years  ago" 

This  subtle  little  thought  was  neither  boldly  looked  at,  nor  con- 
fessed ;  yet  there  it  lay,  palpitating  and  alive;  imprinted  in  a  very 
fine  soul-type  underneath  everything  else  that  had  written  itself 
above ;  and  was  the  text  and  prompting  of  it  all. 

A  little  letter  had  fallen  from  within  the  larger,  as  Mrs.  Vorse 
had  opened  it.  This  was  from  Say. 

DEAR  OLD  GERSHIE  : — 

I  am  so  glad  you  are  coming  to  see  us  in  the  spring.  Mother 
says  she  has  been  asking  you.  You  must  stay  a  great  while, 
because  there  will  be  ever  so  much  to  do.  The  Dido  has  been  in, 
and  I  have  been  down  to  the  wharf  four  times  and  gone  on  board. 
And  then  I  came  up  through  the  market  and  bought  things.  The 
peaches  and  pears  are  all  gone  now,  but  there  are  nuts  and  funny 


Mrs.  Gair  Writes  Home.  87 

little  shiny  cakes  and  candies.  Last  week  the  Dido  sailed,  and 
I  went  down  with  father  and  saw  her  go.  The  sailors  sing  such 
funny  songs.  You  haven't  seen  the  sea  yet.  It  looks  just  the  same. 
And  they  bring  back  oranges  and  pineapples  and  sometimes 
cocoanuts.  The  Pearl  is  coming  by  and  by.  It's  always  nice  when 
the  Pearl  comes  in.  She  goes  a  good  way  off  and  only  comes  back 
once  in  a  great  while.  I  guess  you'll  be  here  when  she  comes. 
Mother's  going  to  do  up  her  letter.  Good-by. 

Respectfully,  your  obedient  servant,  SARAH  GAIR. 

Say  had  inquired  out,  you  see,  the  abbreviated  formality  at  the 
close  of  a  business  note.  It  contrasted  funnily  with  the  sponta- 
neousness  of  her  beginning.  This  is  how  the  fashions  of  the  world 
will  always  sit  upon  some  natures.  Her  mother  smiled  as  she  read 
it,  said  it  was  a  very  good  little  letter,  and  put  it  in. 

Prue  was  neither  imposed  upon,  nor  confounded,  as  she  read 
what  Jane  had  written.  Brought  to  the  test  of  her  clear,  just 
sense  of  right,  the  composition  suffered  instant  analysis  into  its 
true  elements.  She  saw  plainly  enough  what  it  was  that  her  step- 
sister wanted.  Not  all,  perhaps  ;  Jane  herself,  you  know,  shut 
her  eyes  to  the  full  extent  of  her  own  purpose.  But  she  dis- 
cerned that  whether  other  people  might  or  might  not  think  what 
Jane  had  suggested, — she  didn't  believe  it  likely,  or  trouble  herself 
at  all  about  it, — that  lady's  own  mind  was  evidently  disturbed 
upon  the  subject ;  had  fully  possessed  itself  with  the  idea  that 
Gershom's  "  hanging  round  home "  was,  of  design  or  otherwise, 
likely  to  affect  her  own  rights  and  interests.  And  here  was 
where,  by  indirect  effect,  Jane  actually  succeeded  in  touching 
that  independence  of  spirit  which  she  sought  to  provoke.  Pru- 
dence Vorse  read  the  letter  through,  twice,  from  beginning  to  end  ; 
then  she  laid  it  down,  and  discussed  clearly  with  herself  its  main 
points. 

These.  Gershom  must  be  dealt  fairly  by ;  that  argument  had 
force.  He  must  decide  with  his  eyes  open ;  she  would  not  shut 
him  out  from  seeing  or  knowing  what  might  reasonably  affect  his 
wishes  and  plans  ;  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  go  away  beyond 
the  Hilbury  horizon,  and  get  a  broader  look  at  the  world.  Also, 
to  accomplish  this  for  him,  she  knew,  at  this  moment,  no  other 
way  than  to  accept  for  him  the  hospitality  of  her  stepsister.  It 
might  lead  to  the  disappointment  of  her  own  wishes,  and  those  of 
his  grandfather,  as  Gershom  had  been  taught  to  call  the  Doctor  ; 
yet  this  thing  would  be  only  fair  to  the  boy ;  she  saw  that ;  and, 
being  fair  and  just,  to  Prue's  mind  it  was,  of  necessity,  the  thing 
to  be  done.  To  be  done,  however,  with  a  perfectly  open  under- 
standing. The  Doctor  must  know  all  her  reasons,  and  thoughts 
upon  the  matter ;  must  see  the  possible  result,  as  she  saw  it, 
before  he  gave  consent  to  what  he  might  not  otherwise  think  of  as 
more  than  a  brief  change  and  recreation.  Jane's  letter  ?  There 


88  The  Gayworthys. 

was  no  need  to  communicate  more  of  that  than  its  message  and 
invitation.  It  was  with  a  certain  generous,  high-minded  con- 
tempt that  she  settled,  in  a  half-glance  of  thought,  that  considera- 
tion. A  weapon  had  been  put  into  her  hands  by  her  adversary, 
if  she  had  chosen  to  use  it.  A  hint  to  the  free-hearted  old  doctor 
of  its  insinuations  would  have  made  him  indignantly  resolute  to 
take  and  keep  his  own  way  in  the  disposal  of  his  own ;  and  might 
have  put  a  purpose  in  his  head,  for  the  boy's  benefit,  if  it  had 
never  been  there  before.  But  Jane  knew  well  with  whom  she  had 
to  deal.  This  very  possibility  kept  Prue  silent ;  and  the  confi- 
dence of  words  written  with  the  simple  request  of  privacy,  and 
trusted  to  her,  beyond  recall  of  the  hand  that  penned  them,  held 
her  with  all  the  sacredness  of  her  own  pledged  word.  No,  she  had 
no  thought  of  betraying  Jane ;  the  less  that  she  perceived  so  easily 
how  Jane  betrayed  herself. 

That  night,  she  read  out  to  the  Doctor,  after  tea,  those  portions  of 
the  letter  conveying  Jane's  thanks  to  him,  her  mention  of  Joanna, 
and  her  proposal  in  the  boy's  behalf.  Then  she  took  her  scissors 
and  cut  the  sheet  into  narrow  strips,  and  twisted  them  into  lamp- 
lighters. This  was  Prue's  prompt  and  economical  fashion  of 
disposing  of  such  things. 

While  she  twisted,  she  talked. 

"  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  the  way  it  looks  to  me,  is 
this.  You've  done  a  good  deal,  already,  for  Gershom  ;  and  before 
you  do  anything  more,  it  would  only  be  fair  to  both  of  you,  that 
he  should  have  a  chance  to  make  up  his  mind  so  that  there  won't 
be  any  danger  of  his  changing  it  afterwards.  He's  never  been  away 
from  home  very  far ;  and  I  daresay  'twould  do  him  good.  And,  at 
any  rate,  we  can't  keep  it  from  him  that  they've  asked  him  again  ; 
I  don't  hold  to  hiding  things  that  folks  have  a  good  right  to  know  ; 
and  there  isn't  any  doubt  but  what  he'll  be  fierce  to  go.  And  that's 
the  thing  I  want  to  come  to.  I  think  it's  more  than  likely  myself, 
that  when  he  gets  down  there  among  the  ships  and  things,  it'll  be 
hard  work  getting  him  back  again.  There  ! — Now,  if  you  don't 
want  him  to  go,  say  so." 

The  Doctor  looked  over  at  Prue's  honest  face,  and  laughed. 
"  You're  a  funny  special  pleader,"  said  he. 

"  I  never  talk  all  on  one  side,"  answered  Prue.  "  Not  when  I 
can  see  two  sides  to  a  thing." 

"  Let's  look  at  the  letter.  Oh,  you've  turned  it  into  lamplighters 
already,  have  you  ?  Well,  it  don't  make  much  difference.  If  the 
boy  wants  to  go,  Prue,  and  you  want  to  have  him,  that  settles  it. 
If  he  gets  ««settled,  I  shall  be  sorry ;  but  if  two  or  three  weeks 
down  there  can  do  the  mischief,  it's  as  good  as  done  already,  and 
we  can't  help  it.  He's  old  enough  now,  to  be  put  to  the  trial.  And 
that's  the  way  it  looks  to  me." 

Two  straightforward  minds  come  quickly  to  understanding  and 
conclusion. 


The  Pearl.  89 

Prue  answered  Jane's  letter  thus : 

DEAR  JANE — 

Your  letter  and  parcel  were  duly  received.  Please  accept  my 
thanks  for  your  trouble.  I  send  you  fifteen  dollars,  out  of  which 
you  will  please  pay  yourself  whatever  is  due  for  the  dress.  I  could 
not  think  of  taking  it  as  a  present,  for  I  had  the  money  by  me  to 
send  for  a  new  one  if  it  was  necessary ;  only  I  always  try  first 
whether  I  can  make  the  old  things  over. 

As  to  Gershom,  I  don't  know  of  anything  to  prevent  his  coming 
to  Selport  this  spring.  Your  father  seems  to  think  it  right  that  he 
should  ;  and  he'll  be  sure  to  like  the  plan,  and  be  much  obliged  to 
you  and  Reuben  for  inviting  him.  I  wrote  to  him  yesterday,  and 
sent  him  Say's  letter. 

I  don't  feel  at  all  worried  about  anything  that  folks  can  think  of 
me.  It's  plain  enough,  on  the  face  of  it,  that  Gershom  and  I  owe 
our  time  and  help  to  your  father  if  he  wants  them ;  and  he's  given 
us  just  what  he  promised  he  would  in  return  ;  a  good  home,  and 
clothing  for  both,  and  Gershom's  schooling.  It  was  a  fair  bargain, 
because  it  was  a  bargain,  though  a  generous  one  on  the  Doctor's 
part,  as  his  bargains  always  are.  If  ever  he  does  anything  more, 
it  won't  be  because  we've  waited  round  for  it,  or  expected  it. 

There  isn't  much  news  in  Hilbury.  Gordon  King  preached  here 
last  Sunday.  He's  altered  a  good  deal  since  he  was  married. 
Stacy  didn't  come.  She  couldn't  leave  the  two  babies.  They  say 
she  isn't  very  well  contented  at  Winthorpe.  It's  a  large  parish,  and 
there's  a  good  deal  expected  of  her.  A  woman  ought  to  be  as 
strong  as  Goliath  and  as  patient  as  Job,  to  make  a  good  minister's 
wife.  And  Stacy  never  was  quite  that,  I  guess.  Gordon  is  im- 
proved in  his  sermons,  though.  Somehow,  there  seems  to  be  more 
reality  to  them. 

You  must  excuse  short  letters.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  much  of  a 
hand  at  writing,  and  I  don't  have  a  great  deal  of  time  for  it.  Give 
my  love  to  Joanna,  and  Say,  and  remember  me  kindly  to  Reuben. 

Yours  truly, 

PRUDENCE  VORSE. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE   PEARL. 

SPRING  had  breathed  over  the  city.  The  light  and  joy  that  was 
in  the  country,  among  the  hills  and  fields,  somehow  crept  hither, 
also.  There  was  the  smell  of  tender  grass  in  the  narrow  door- 
yards  ;  the  very  sidewalks,  as  they  steamed  under  the  sun  that 
climbed  the  great  firmament,  daily,  higher  and  higher,  had  an  odor 


9o  The  Gayworthys. 

as  of  the  prisoned  earth  beneath,  stirred  with  the  sweet,  universal 
impulse  of  growth,  and  giving  out  sighs  of  gentle,  yearning  pain, 
through  every  crevice.  Little  children  were  gay,  they  knew  not 
why.  Birds  sang,  in  their  cages,  with  a  feeling  of  the  far  forests 
that  they  never  saw.  Houses  stood  with  open  windows,  and  the 
freshness  of  light  and  cleanliness  were  bestowed,  where,  all 
winter  long,  had  been  dimness  and  chill,  and  gathering  dust  and 
soil.  Ladies  walked  out,  appareled  in  delicate  fabrics  and  colors. 
There  was  a  shining  in  shop  windows  of  all  manner  of  light  and 
lovely  draperies.  Churches  on  Sunday,  were  beautiful  with  a  sort 
of  human  blossom-time.  Faces  were  bright  ;  hearts,  even  the 
saddest,  felt  some  instinctive  spring  of  elasticity.  Earth  lay  in  her 
perihelion  to  heaven. 

And  the  Pearl  had  come  in. 

From  far  islands,  away  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  ocean, 
that  she  left  in  the  scorching  heats  of  their  torrid  summer,  she  had 
come  sailing,  over  and  up,  from  clime  to  clime,  meeting  the  seasons 
as  the  great  globe  wheeled  itself,  and  bent  its  northern  brow 
toward  the  summer  solstice.  And  there  she  lay  at  the  pier-end, 
dingy  and  weather-beaten,  breathing  out  the  strange  atmosphere 
that  had  hung  around  her,  all  the  long  way  ;  a  mingling  of  tropical 
spiciness,  odors  of  dried  skins,  with  which  she  was  largely  laden, 
and  the  tarry  flavor  that  had  distilled  itself  through  everything, 
while  shrouds  and  seams  were  seething  there  under  that  equatorial 
sun,  with  a  glorious  fragrance  of  rich,  foreign  fruits  triumphing 
over  all.  For  there  were  plenty  of  oranges  and  pineapples ;  and, 
lying  in  the  half-deck,  with  spare  blocks,  and  rope,  and  rolled-up 
sails,  great  piles  of  rough-barked,  sweet-hearted  cocoanuts. 

And  Gershom  Vorse  had  come  to  the  city,  too,  at  last.  A  well- 
grown  fellow  of  sixteen  he  was  now ;  tall,  sturdy,  like  a  young 
pine;  with  a  mountaineer's  uplifting  of  the  brow,  and  a  light  upon 
it  as  if  it  caught  the  shining  of  some  far-off  sun.  Full  of  quick 
thought,  and  manly  hope, — ready  for  life, — glancing  keenly,  out  of 
eagle  eyes,  into  the  world  around  him,  to  see  what  offered  to  him 
there.  A  boy  in  his  imaginations  and  his  faiths  ;  growing  speedily 
to  a  man  in  will  and  purpose. 

Say  was  very  happy  in  showing  him  about.  Most  of  all,  in 
"  taking  him  down  to  see  the  Pearl,"  and  doing  the  honors  there. 

Captain  Burley  was  heartily  hospitable  on  board  his  brig.  There 
were  gentlemen  in  and  out  of  his  cabin,  sometimes,  on  business. 
Mr.  Gair  was  often  on  board,  for  some  quiet  consultation,  secure 
from  the  interruptions  of  the  counting-house.  There  was  always 
a  plate  of  great,  red-golden  oranges,  such  as  only  came  in  the 
Pearl,  or  in  vessels  that  went  just  where  she  did, — pineapples  and 
sugar, — or  a  glass  of  wine, — ready,  either  or  all,  according  to  the 
taste  of  his  visitors.  There  was  always  somebody  who  would 
crack  a  cocoanut  for  Say,  delivering  up  to  her  the  fragments  of  the 
wonderful  brown  globe,  with  their  lining  of  pure,  rich,  delicious 


The  Pearl.  91 

meat,  and  the  thin  luscious  milk,  saved  for  her  in  the  glass  she 
would  get  out  of  the  captain's  pantry. 

The  vessel  lay,  as  I  said,  at  the  pier-end  ;  there  was  a  clear  out- 
iOok  from  stem  or  stern.  Say  used  to  delight  in  lying  curled  up  on 
the  cushioned  transom,  in  the  little  cabin,  and  looking  though  the 
open  stern  windows,  down  over  the  bright  waters  of  the  harbor, 
away  off,  into  the  broad,  open  bay.  Overhead,  the  stevedore  and 
his  gang  might  tramp  and  shout  ;  out  on  the  wharf,  might  be  all 
the  bustle  and  noise  and  crowding  of  men,  and  teams,  and  mer- 
chandise, lading  and  unlading ;  but  down  here  it  was  safe  and 
quiet,  and  opened  forth  upon  endless  expanse  and  freedom  and 
coolness.  Gershom  would  leave  her,  established  so  with  her 
oranges  and  cocoanuts,  and  go  himself  all  over  the  vessel,  searching 
out  its  hidden  places,  questioning,  observing,  studying ;  feeling  a 
strange  sort  of  reverence  for  the  very  ropes  and  timbers  that  had 
come,  through  sudden  nights,  and  burning  days, — in  gales,  and 
calms,  and  beautiful  breezy  weather,  over  half  the  face  of  the  round 
world.  He  would  climb,  as  he  had  promised  long  ago  to  Say,  up 
the  rigging,  and  sit  in  the  main-top,  and  look  away  where  the  blue 
water  touched  the  sky-line  ;  and  think  what  it  would  be  for  him  to 
go  sailing  down  there,  over  the  mysterious  verge,  to  find  the  far- 
off  countries  and  islands  of  the  earth, — he,  who  had  hitherto  seen 
only  Hilbury  rocks,  and  traversed  woods  and  pastures  and 
mountain  roads  in  a  small  circuit  of  a  dozen  miles.  Just  over  here 
roared  the  busy,  growing,  striving  city ;  but  that  he  hardly  cared 
for  in  comparison;  off  yonder  rolled  and  heaved  the  waters  down 
the  mighty  planet-side,  and  his  whole  soul  went  out  after  his  eyes, 
in  his  resistless  longing  to  go  and  see  the  world. 

They  spent  whole  afternoons  here ;  walking  up  at  sunset 
through  the  quieting  streets  at  last  with  Mr.  Gair ;  whose  mind, 
intent  upon  invoices  and  price-currents,  caught  no  thrill  of  all  that 
stirred  so  restlessly  the  heart  and  brain  of  the  stripling  by  his  side. 

So  things  wrought  on  together,  just  as  one  at  least  among  those 
interested  in  results  had  partially  foreseen  and  tacitly  intended. 

Years  ago,  Jane  Gair  had  laid  a  few  little  kindling  sticks  to- 
gether, towards  the  building  of  a  fire.  Other  and  larger  ones  had 
laid  themselves  as  it  were  since,  or  had  been  flung  on  by  circum- 
stance and  opportunity.  There  was  a  pretty  pile  ready  now,  and 
a  match  was  touched.  When  she  saw  little  threads  of  smoke 
begin  to  creep  up  among  them,  she  set  herself  judiciously  to  blow. 
There  are  two  ways  of  using  one's  breath  upon  a  flame.  It  de- 
pends on  whether  one  wishes  to  blow  it  up  or  blow  it  out.  Either 
may  be  done  perhaps  at  first,  and  a  heedless  bystander  might  not 
discern  at  first  which  was  intended.  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  did  not 
blow  upon  Gershom  Vorse's  kindling  fancy  as  if  she  meant  to 
blow  it  out.  One  real,  cold,  vigorous  puff,  at  the  right  instant, 
might  have  been  effectual.  She  blew  ;  but  gently.  It  was  a  mild 
show  of  remonstrance  and  caution,  against  which  the  flame  curled 


92  The  Gayworthys. 

only  stronger  into  life.  Presently,  it  would  gain  such  headway 
that  she  might  labor  against  it  as  heartily  and  directly  as  she 
pleased,  yet  the  blaze  would  only  grow  and  mount  more  mightily. 
Then  nobody  looking  on  could  blame  her,  surely.  Then  she  might 
say  to  her  own  conscience,  even, — "  It's  none  of  my  doing.  I  have 
persuaded  ;  I  have  opposed  ;  the  boy  will  have  his  own  way." 

"  I  don't  know,  Gershom,"  she  said  to  him  one  evening,  coming 
to  him  in  the  front  window,  after  tea  was  over, — "  about  all 
this  going  to  the  wharf.  I  am  afraid  the  Pearl  has  a  little  bewitched 
you." 

"  What  if  she  had,  Aunt  Jane  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  won't  do  to  get  too  much  taken  up.  It 
isn't  what  you've  got  to  do  with,  you  know." 

"  I  haven't  found  out  what  I  have  got  to  do  with,  yet.  I've  just 
come  down  out  of  the  hills.  I've  only  had  books  to  tell  me  what's 
in  the  world ;  I've  got  out  to  an  edge  here,  where  I  can  look  off. 
I  think  that's  it, — more  than  the  Pearl." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  to  see  here,  without  looking  off." 

"  Yes ;  people  walking  up  and  down  the  streets,  between  their 
stores  and  houses,  just  as  if  there  wasn't  anything  beyond.  I 
don't  see  how  they  can  do  it.  I  don't  see  how  anybody  can  get  as 
far  as  this,  and  not  want  to  go  farther." 

"  You'd  better  put  those  notions  out  of  your  head.  They  won't 
answer.  Things  are  pretty  much  settled  for  you,  already,  I 
guess." 

There  came  a  cloud  over  the  boy's  face.  This  touched  where 
human  nature — young  human  nature,  at  least — inevitably  rebels. 

"  Things  get  ««settled  sometimes."  he  said,  half  under  his 
breath. 

"  I'm  rather  sorry,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "  that  you've  been  kept 
quite  so  long  at  home.  I  always  thought  it  would  have  been  better 
to  give  you  a  chance  to  look  about  you  sooner.  It's  like  coming 
suddenly  out  of  the  dark.  You're  dazzled,  at  first.  But  it's  only 
the  novelty.  You'll  get  over  it." 

"There's  more  novelty  out  there,  somewhere.  And  I  never 
heard  of  anybody  who  wanted  to  go  back  into  the  dark." 

Gershom's  thoughts  defined  themselves,  as  they  were  drawn  out 
in  argument.  His  words  declared  as  much  to  himself  that  he  had 
hardly  looked  at  before,  as  to  his  listener.  More,  perhaps. 

"  T — t — t ! "  Mrs.  Gair's  tongue  made  a  little,  untranslatable 
deprecating  sound  against  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  "  That  de- 
pends, some,  upon  what  there  is  to  go  back  for.  People  must 
think  what  is  for  their  interest.  What  could  you  do,  off  in  the 
world,  alone  ?  " 

Pride  and  independence — yes,  even  honor, — got  a  prick  in  this 
little  sentence.  The  boy  was  amazed,  within  himself,  at  the  sudden 
start  and  growth,  almost  into  determination,  of  his  secret,  restless 
wishes. 


The  Pearl.  93 

"  I  might  find  out  what,  perhaps.  Others  have.  And  I  don't 
mean  to  be  a  good  boy  just  for  what  I  can  get.  I  shan't  be  a 
baby,  all  my  life,  to  sit  in  people's  laps,  and  be  fed." 

"Why,  Gershie,  you're  spunky!  as  Eben  used  to  say:"  ex- 
claimed Aunt  Jane,  and  laughed. 

But  there  were  sudden  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes,  after  the  fire. 
The  thought  came  to  him,  how  he  had  been  fed,  and  taught ;  and 
what  he  owed  ;  and  how  he  was  held.  A  generous  throb  of  grat- 
itude and  affection  struggled  with  the  strange,  impetuous  impulse 
just  born  into  conscious  life.  Together,  they  burst  forth  in  a 
short,  quick,  single  sob.  He  put  his  elbow  up,  upon  the  window- 
ledge,  and,  turning  his  face  half  away,  leaned  his  chin  upon  his 
hand,  and  looked,  vacantly,  through  a  great  glistening,  out  into  the 
street. 

"  Why,  Gershie  !  "  began  Aunt  Jane,  again.  "  You  quite  worry 
me.  I'd  no  idea  the  mischief  had  gone  so  far.  Or  that  there  was 
any  real  mischief  at  all.  I  shall  have  to  write  home  about  you,  if 
you  feel  like  this." 

"  No,"  said  Gershom,  turning  back  suddenly,  and  rising  to  his 
feet.  "  Don't  do  that.  When  there's  anything  to  write  about, 
I'll  write  myself.  Or  go."  And  with  that,  he  put  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  and  walked  off  into  the  back  parlor,  where  Say  was 
spreading  out  her  "  Mansion  of  Happiness  "  ;  and  offered  to  play 
with  her.  Presently,  they  were  both  busy  with  teetotum  and 
counters,  as  if  nothing  else  were  in  heart  or  head  of  either. 

A  little  door,  opened  for  an  instant  by  an  unexpected  word, 
had  swung  to  again  upon  the  secret  place  in  a  human  heart, 
whence  motive  power  was  fed,  and  a  steam  of  purpose  generated 
that  should  become  the  propelling  force  of  a  human  life.  But 
Aunt  Jane  had  glanced  in,  and  seen  that  the  fire  was  burning, — 
well. 

The  next  evening,  Captain  Burley  came  to  tea.  With  an  un- 
usual blandness,  Aunt  Jane  had  herself  proposed  the  invitation. 
"  We  ought  to  have  him  here,"  she  said.  "  He's  been  very  kind 
to  the  children.  It  seems  to  me  they  have  half  lived  on  board  the 
Pearl,  since  she  came  in."  Mrs.  Gair  was  ordinarily  rather  shy 
of  proffering  or  even  assenting  to  this  sort  of  hospitality,  to  "  busi- 
ness people."  Captain  Burley  picked  his  teeth,  put  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  tilted  back  his  chair,  and  spat  in  the  grate.  What  if  Mrs. 
Topliff  and  her  husband  should  happen  to  come  in,  in  a  social  way, 
as  she  had  asked  them  to  do  ?  To  be  sure  they  never  had  hap- 
pened in,  since  the  Pearl  went  away  before ;  but  the  possibility 
was  always  hanging  over  her  head. 

Mr.  Gair  very  willingly  conveyed  the  invitation  which  he  had 
somewhat  timidly  delayed  suggesting. 

Captain  Burley  talked  well.  I  do  not  mean  elegantly,  or  elo- 
quently ;  except  so  far  as  eloquence  is  understood  as  comprehend- 
ing the  power  with  which  even  an  ordinary  fashion  of  speech  may 


94  The  Gayworthys. 

convey  from  a  mind  fully  possessed  with  its  topic,  its  aspects  and 
/nterests  to  the  minds  of  others. 

Captain  Burley  was  a  thorough  sailor.  He  was  a  great,  full- 
pouled,  generous  man,  too.  It  seemed  as  if  he  held  the  sea  in  his 
heart,  and  all  his  emotions  became  like  the  pulsing  of  mighty 
tides.  This  nature  that  was  in  him,  flowing  out  into  his  common 
conversation,  made  it  strong  and  salt ;  sparkling,  too,  when  any 
little  touch  of  sunshine  played  upon  it.  Gershom  sat  by  listening ; 
something  responsive  waking  up,  within  himself,  to  all  he  heard. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  "  that  we  couldn't  have  kept  Oak- 
man  for  you,  this  trip." 

"  Can't  be  as  sorry  as  I  am,"  said  the  Captain.  "  The  brig 
won't  know  how  to  behave  herself,  without  him.  He's  the  smart- 
est fellow  that  ever  trod  a  deck  and  wasn't  master  of  it.  Can't 
blame  him  though.  If  I'd  an  old  mother  out  West,  that  I  hadn't 
clapped  eyes  on  for  three  years'  voyagin',  I  guess  I'd  shake  off  salt 
water,  and  lay  my  course  overland,  too  ! " 

"  He'll  get  that  new  barque  of  Kentley's  when  he  comes  back. 
They've  been  after  him." 

"  Likely  he  will.  And  he  ought  to.  That,  or  something  else 
as  good.  But  that  ain't  what  he's  workin'  sail  for.  Pity  you've 
promised  the  new  brig  to  Dixon.  He'd  have  been  the  man  for  her. 
It's  as  good  as  a  double  insurance,  to  put  him  on  a  quarter-deck. 
Saved  the  whole  voyage,  to  say  nothing  of  my  life,  that  last  time 
but  one.  We'd  have  been  hauled  up  there  in  Charles'on  harbor, 
cargo  all  tumbled  out,  and  crew  off,  in  the  middle  of  the  yellow 
fever,  if't  hadn't  been  for  him.  And  I  don't  know  another  man 
that  could  have  helped  it.  I  tell  you, — he's  a  kind  of  Tarpaulin 
Bonaparte !  " 

"  You  tell  that  story  yet,  don't  you,  Captain  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gair 
laughing.  "  Well,  it's  a  good  one." 

"  Ask  him  to  tell  it  now,"  whispered  Gershom  eagerly  to  Aunt 
Jane. 

Mrs.  Gair  turned  from  the  boy's  kindling  face  to  the  sea- 
browned  visage  of  the  skipper,  that  was  lighting  all  over  also  with 
the  pleased  recollection  of  difficulty  met,  man-fashion,  and  peril 
passed  safely  through.  It  would  evidently  be  no  less  pleasure  to 
tell  than  to  listen. 

"  Mayn't  we  hear  about  it,  Captain  Burley  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Certainly,  ma'am.  'Tisn't  a  long  story.  Now — to  tell — I 
mean.  We  thought  'twas  a  tolerable  long  story  in  the  tim«  of  it. 
Or  he  did,  at  any  rate.  He  didn't  let  me  know  it  all,  as  it  went  on. 
You  see,"  continued  the  Captain,  bringing  his  chair  down  quietly 
to  its  four  feet,  as  cognizant  again  of  ladies'  presence,  and  releas- 
ing his  thumbs  from  the  corners  of  his  trousers'  pockets  where 
they  had  hitched  themselves,  to  place  his  hands  upon  his  wide- 
spread knees,  and  lean  a  little  forward  toward  his  questioner,  as  he 
spoke,  — "  we  was  coming  up  from  Rio.  Cargo  of  coffee  and  sugar. 


The  Pearl.  95 

Some  hides.  Been  out  thirty  days ;  bothered  about  with  calms 
and  head  winds  on  the  line  and  all  the  way  up,  till  we  took  the 
northeast  trades ;  worked  along  up  with  them  till  we  got  just  to 
the  north'ard  of  St.  Thomas. 

"  I  was  down  below,  sick,  in  my  berth  ;  got  awfully  knocked  up, 
somehow ;  hadn't  been  well  all  the  way  from  Rio,  nor  before  we 
sailed.  Oakman  had  the  handling  of  the  brig.  All  at  once — 
sprung  a  leak.  Made  two  feet  and  a  half  of  water  before  we 
knew  what  we  were  about.  Couldn't  tell  where  it  came  in.  Mis- 
trusted some  foul  play  on  the  part  of  the  crew  ;  had  some  trouble- 
some fellows  aboard.  Well ;  we  set  the  men  at  the  pumps  ;  had  to 
keep  'em  going  night  and  day.  Pretty  soon  they  began  to  grum- 
ble ;  thought  we  ought  to  put  in.  Talked  about  making  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall,  and  getting  in  to  Nassau.  Nice  place  that  would  have 
been  !  Wreckers,  and  pirates,  and  general  average,  and  hides  all 
eaten  up  with  worms !  At  last  the  third  day  in  the  afternoon,  a 
gang  of  'em  came  aft,  to  Oakman.  'What's  the  Captain  going  to 
do  with  us  ?  '  That  was  what  they  wanted  to  know.  Wanted  it 
pretty  much  in  what  you  might  call  the  imperative  mood,  too. 
'  Ain't  he  going  to  put  in  ? '  '  Can't  say,'  says  Oakman,  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth.  '  Will  if  he  must,  I  suppose ;  haven't  asked 
him,  though,  and  don't  mean  to,  as  long  as  I  can  help  it.'  '  Well, 
Mr.  Oakman,'  says  the  foremost  fellow,  '  if  we  don't  see  Providence 
Channel  in  a  day  or  so, — we  know  we're  somewhere  off  there, — 
we  shall  have  more  to  say  about  it.  We  hain't  had  less'n  a  foot 
'n  a  half  o'  water  since  we've  been  at  the  pumps.  Men  have  got 
some  sort  of  a  right  to  speak  for  their  lives  ;  be,' — well,  so-and-so'd 
considerably, — '  if  they  hain't ! '  That  wasn't  the  only  place  where 
he  put  in  the  trimmins,  neither.  Well ;  Oakman  just  stood,  and 
looked  at  'em  ;.  straight,  without  winkin*. 

" '  See  here,  my  men,'  said  he,  '  d'ye  think  you're  goin'  to  gain 
anything  by  this  ?  The  brig's  in  my  hands,  subject  to  the  Cap- 
tain's approval,  as  long  as  he's  able  to  give  me  an  order ;  and 
when  he  ain't, — whether  or  no.  And  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm 
going  to  take  good  care  of  her,  and  all  that's  in  her;  lives,  and 
cargo,  and  all.  Best  I  can.  My  own  life's  aboard,  too.  Maybe 
you  didn't  think  of  that.  You  go  for'ard  again,  and  obey  orders, 
if  we  find  ourselves  off  '  Hole  in  the  Wall,'  ('twasn't  likely,  for  we'd 
crossed  the  tropic,  and  the  wind  had  come  out  from  the  sou' west, 
fair  and  strong ;  and  "we  was  in  longitude  seventy  then,  if  we 
was  an  inch  ;)  '  and  the  pumps  don't  tell  a  better  story,  I'll  advise 
him  to  put  in.  And  if  that  leak  is  found, — or  stopped, — every  man 
Jack  of  you  gets  extra  grog  as  long  as  we're  out,  and  a  Spanish 
doubloon,  atop  of  his  wages,  when  we  get  into  port.' 

"  There  was  always  a  kind  of  a  look  in  that  blue  eye  of  his,  that 
the  men  couldn't  stand  against.  'Twasn't  savage,  neither.  What 
with  that,  and  the  notion  of  the  grog  and  the  gold,  they  pulled  fore- 
locks, and  took  themselves  for'ard,  half  pacified ;  and  that  lasted 


96  The  Gayworthys. 

till  we  got  up  into  latitude  thirty  degrees,  just  under  the  Bermudas. 
Then  they  began  to  look  grumpy  again.  '  We've  run  a  good  while 
before  this  sou'west  wind,  Mr.  Oakman,'  says  Kneeland,  the 
second  mate,  coming  aft.  He  was  as  bad  as  any  of  'em.  '  Why 
didn't  you  get  in  at  Nassau  ?  '  '  You've  just  said  why,'  says  Oak- 
man. '  Been  running  before  a  sou'west  wind.  You  didn't  sup- 
pose I  should  try  to  make  New  Providence  with  a  breeze  like  this 
in  my  teeth?'  'Guess  we'll  have  to  see  about  something  soon,' 
says  Kneeland,  '  or  the  men  won't  stand  it.  Them' — so-and-so'd 
• — '  pumps  is  working  the  hearts  out  of  'em.'  '  Leak  as  bad  as 
ever  ? '  '  Don't  s'pose  you  need  telling,  sir ;  you  know  'tis.' 
'  Sorry  for  it,'  says  Oakman,  coolly,  '  on  account  of  the  doubloons. 
Don't  gain  any,  does  it  ?  '  '  No,  sir ;  nor  the  pumps  don't  gain  on 
///  and  if  the  men  give  out,  there  we  go,  to  Davy's  locker,  sure  as 

,'  mentioning  a  place  that  some  folks  seem  to  be  mighty  sure 

of,  and  other  folks  ain't  so  certain  about.  'They  won't  give  out,' 
says  Oakman,  again.  '  We'll  bear  away  for  Charles'on  ;  and  if 
matters  don't  mend,  we'll  put  in  there.  Double  their  grog. — Eight 
bells.  Call  the  watch ! '  Well,  there  was  so  much  west  in  the 
wind,  you  see,  that  we  couldn't  make  Charles'on.  Kept  along  up 
the  coast,  and  came  off  Hatteras.  Began  to  talk  about  Norfolk. 
Passed  off  there, — a  good  way  off, — in  the  night.  Good,  stiffish 
weather;  fair  wind.  If  this  holds,'  says  Oakman,  'we'll  be  into 
New  York  by  day  after  to-morrow.  He'd  kept  well  out  into  the 
Gulf  Stream,  and  we  was  then  in  longitude  only  a  little  west  of 
seventy ;  and,  by  George,  sir !  while  those  fellows  were  keeping 
their  eyes  peeled  for  New  York,  we  made  Cape  Cod !  " 

Captain  Burley  turned  round,  as  he  came  to  this  climax  of  his 
story,  warmed  up  by  the  recollection,  to  an  apparent  entire  forget- 
fulness  that  he  had  ever  told  it  before,  or  that  Mr.  Gair  knew  any- 
thing about  it ;  slapping  his  right  hand  down  upon  his  knee,  with 
a  jolly  emphasis,  and  his  ruddy  brown  face  all  aglow  with  delight. 
And  Mr.  Gair  laughed  back  again,  as  heartily  as  if  the  Pearl  had 
but  yesterday  finished  her  hazardous  passage,  and  he  were  learning 
for  the  first  time  the  clever  daring  that  had  opposed  itself  to  threats 
of  elements  and  mutinous  men,  and  in  the  end  made  such  a  capital 
joke  out  of  it  all,  for  fireside  rehearsal, 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  Captain,  presently;  "it's  a  good  thing  to 
tell ;  and  it  was  a  grand  thing  to  do  ;  and  folks  on  shore  can't  take 
in  the  whole  beauty  of  it,  neither.  I  guess  nobody  but  Oakman 
himself,  and  the  Lord  Almighty,  ever  knew  what  he  went  through, 
mind  and  body,  to  get  that  brig  in,  and  save  the  property.  I  don't 
believe  he  had  an  hour's  sleep,  together,  between  the  Bahamas  and 
Cape  Cod  Light.  And  he  hadn't  a  dollar's  interest,  neither,  be- 
yond his  wages.  It  was  just,  as  you  might  say,  his  own  life 
against  owners  and  underwriters,  that  he  had  to  consider.  And 
he  stuck  to  his  duty.  I  don't  know  how  it  appears  to  other  folks, 
sir,  but  it  don't  seem  to  me  that  God  looks  down  out  of  heaven  on 


The  Pearl.  97 

any  braver  or  better  thing,  than  a  man  standing  on  the  deck  of 
his  vessel,  out  of  sight  and  knowledge  of  every  human  being  but 
the  few  he's  responsible  over,  in  mortal  peril  between  sea  and  sky, 
and  doing  the  best  he  can,  boldly,  to  the  last,  for  what's  been 
trusted  to  him  by  men  a  thousand  miles  off,  asleep,  comfortably, 
maybe,  in  their  beds.  It's  easy  to  talk  about;  but  doing  as  you'd 
be  done  by  is  one  kind  of  a  thing  ashore,  and  a  /r<rmengious  dif- 
ferent kind  of  a  thing,  very  often,  I  can  tell  you,  out  at  sea ! " 

"  Did  the  sailors  get  their  doubloons?"  asked  little  Say,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  think  they  ought  to,  when  they  worked  so  hard.  And 
I  don't  wonder  they  got  frightened." 

"  That's  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole  thing.  We'd  no 
sooner  made  Cape  Cod  Light,  than  all  of  a  sudden,  just  as  unac- 
countable as  it  had  started,  that  leak  stopped.  Pumps  sucked. 
Everything  tight  and  dry.  Might  have  turned  round  and  gone 
back  to  Rio,  if  there'd  been  anything  to  go  back  for.  Of  course, 
it  looked  more'n  ever  as  if  the  men  themselves  had  had  a  hand 
in  it ;  and  when  they  found  'twas  no  use,  and  they  couldn't  put 
in  much  short  of  home,  they  gave  it  up,  and  saved  their  trouble 
and  their  doubloons.  Weil,  they  got  'em, — yes  ;  your  father's  a 
man  that  keeps  his  promises,  even  when  other  folks  has  to  make 
'em  for  him  ;  and  now,  see  what  turned  up.  When  we  got  that 
vessel  up  on  the  ways,  there  it  all  was,  plain  as  preaching  ;  pretty 
good  preaching,  too,  I  think.  There  was  the  starboard  garboard 
seam,  close  by  the  stern,  had  opened  ;  long  enough,  you'd  say, 
to  sink  a  seventy-four;  and  laid  right  into  it,  as  neat  as  any 
caulking,  was  a  fish.  Long,  narrow  fellow,  almost  like  an  eel ; 
sucking-fish,  they  call  'em  ;  made  a-purpose,  and  a  complete  fit. 
Got  hold  with  his  big,  round  mouth,  just  for'ard  of  the  leak, 
exactly  where  the  water  drawing  in,  took  his  body  neatly  along 
into  the  seam  ;  and  there  it  was.  Thing  done.  Folks  talk  about 
Providence,  but  I  saw  it  then,  if  I  never  did  afore.  That  night, 
came  on  the  first  storm  we'd  had  from  Cape  St.  Roque ;  and  a 
regular  peeler.  Had  to  keep  well  off  the  coast,  and  beat  about 
for  a  couple  of  days,  before  we  could  treat  ourselves  to  a  sight  of 
land  again.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  fish  coming  along  just  in 
the  nick  of  time,  like  Jonah's  whale,  we ' d  all  have  been  swallowed 
up,  fast  enough  ;  never  could  have  weathered  it  an  hour.  I've  had 
queer  things  happen  to  me  in  my  life ;  but,  take  it  altogether,  I 
don't  think  I  ever  experienced  anything  queerer  than  that  passage 
from  Rio." 

"  I'm  so  glad  the  poor  sailors  got  their  money,  and  it  was  all 
found  out  that  they  didn't  make  the  leak,"  said  Say,  slipping  her 
hand  into  her  father's,  and  nestling  closer  to  his  side  upon  the  sofa. 
"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  such  a  man  as  that  Mr.  Oakman, 
Gershie  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  be  such  a  man,"  said  Gershom,  all  afire,  and  speaking 
out,  forgetting  his  boy's  reserve. 


98  The  Gayvvorthys. 

"  I  could  tell  you  more  than  that  about  him.  People  have 
chances  for  bravery,  if  it's  in  'em,  out  at  sea.  It  was  only  two  or 
three  years  ago  that  he  saved  a  whole  ship-load  of  German  emi- 
grants. He  was  second  mate  of  the  Grampus,  then,  bound  home 
to  New  York.  Just  this  side  of  the  Grand  Banks,  they  fell  in 
with  a  vessel  in  distress ;  dismasted,  and  sinking.  Emigrant 
ship  Adelheid,  from  Hamburg.  Hundred  and  seventy  poor  souls 
on  board,  screaming  and  praying  in  Dutch.  High  sea  running ; 
couldn't  get  a  boat  alongside.  Bore  up  to  windward  as  near 
the  wreck  as  they  could,  and  sent  out  boats  and  a  hawser.  Oak- 
man  was  the  first  to  be  off,  and  carried  the  rope.  Got  as  near 
alongside  as  he  could  and  flung  it  aboard.  There  they  made 
it  fast,  and  rigged  a  running  bowline.  When  the  poor,  scared 
devils  found  out  that  this  was  all  that  could  be  done  for  them, 
and  they'd  got  to  swing  for  their  lives  in  that  fashion,  they  all 
hung  back  and  screamed  and  prayed  in  harder  Dutch  than  ever. 
The  Captain  told  the  men  to  do  as  they  liked  ;  he  should  stay  by 
the  ship  till  the  passengers  were  safe.  His  three  officers  stood  by 
him ;  noble  fellows,  all  of  'em.  I  tell  you,  'twas  a  ticklish  time. 
Late  in  the  afternoon, — the  vessel  settling  slow  and  sure  towards 
the  water's  edge, — the  Grampus  standing  off  to  windward,  and 
drifting  away  from  her  all  the  time, — and  those  poor  creatures, 
mostly  women  and  children,  huddled  together  on  the  doomed 
deck,  trembling  and  crying ;  feeling  safer,  poor  fools,  to  keep  the 
planks  under  them,  than  to  trust  themselves  to  a  bowline-hitch 
over  the  raging  water.  The  Captain  and  officers  coaxed  'em, — 
stormed  at  'em.  No  use.  Nobody  would  go  first.  Then  up 
came  Oakman,  over  the  ship's  side,  by  the  hawser,  and  sprung, 
dripping,  on  to  the  deck.  Never  said  a  word.  Shook  himself, 
and  looked  round.  Nearest  to  him  was  a  woman  with  two  chil- 
dren, all  on  their  knees.  Youngest  about  six  years  old.  Oakman 
grabbed  him,  screaming,  made  him  fast  with  the  bowline,  and 
swung  him  down,  safely,  into  the  boat.  Then  the  men  began  to 
cheer.  '  Don't  be  frightened,'  said  Oakman,  in  a  bright  hearty 
way,  that  they  understood,  if  they  didn't  his  words,  and  picking 
up  the  other  child ;  '  we'll  save  you  all.'  Mother  hollered  Dutch 
at  him,  but  he  didn't  stop  to  listen.  Didn't  know  a  word  she 
said,  and  didn't  want  to.  When  the  second  child  had  been 
passed  down,  she  stopped  hollering,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  go 
too.  And  that  started  all  the  rest.  After  that,  it  was  which 
should  go  first.  One  after  another,  the  boats  were  filled,  and 
pulled  away  for  the  Grampus.  Back  they  came,  and  filled  again. 
A  longer  pull,  each  time,  to  and  fro;  the  Grampus  drifting,  drift- 
ing, all  the  while,  and  the  night  darkening  down.  When  the  last 
boat  was  loaded,  with  every  soul  that  she  could  safely  carry,  there 
stood  the  Hamburg  Captain  and  his  three  officers,  pale,  and  stern, 
and  brave,  refusing,  every  man  of  'em,  to  set  foot  into  a  boat 
until  the  rest  were  safe.  So  they  pulled  away  again,  and  left 


The  Pearl. 

'em.  Wind  and  sea  were  higher  than  ever,  and  the  Grampus 
farther  off.  Drifting,  every  moment,  away  ;  and  the  cloudy  twi- 
light coming  on.  '  Where's  the  Captain  of  the  ship  ?  '  shouted  out 
the  master  of  the  Grampus,  as  that  last  boat  came  towards  her 
with  its  load.  '  Stayed  by,  sir  ! '  was  the  answer.  '  He  and  the 
three  mates.  We  were  all  full.'  '  My  God  ! '  cries  the  Captain, 
with  a  look  at  the  scudding  clouds,  and  the  waves  with  their  white 
caps  on.  '  I  can't  leave  those  fellows  behind !  Who'll  pull  for 
the  wreck  again  ? '  '  I'll  go  sir,'  says  Oakman.  And  then,  for 
half  a  minute,  nobody  else  offered.  It  was  a  chance  if  they  ever 
stood  on  that  deck  again,  if  they  left  it  now.  Oakman  waited 
that  half  minute,  and  then,  looking  round  at  the  men. — I  can 
see  how  the  blue  fire  would  be  lighting  in  his  eyes, — '  which  of 
you  goes  with  me,  boys  ?  Don't  all  speak  at  once  ! '  says  he.  So, 
out  of  bravery  or  shame,  four  of  'em  stepped  forward  then,  and 
went  down  with  him  over  the  ship's  side.  I  suppose  that  Ham- 
burg Captain  and  his  mates  had  said  their  prayers,  and  taken  their 
leave  of  this  world,  when  that  boat  came  climbing  up,  over  a  great, 
green  wave,  toward  the  wreck  again.  '  Here  we  are  ! '  sung  out 
Oakman.  The  four  men  on  the  wreck  gave  the  beginning  of  a 
shout  together,  and  stopped,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst.  They  said 
afterwards,  it  was  to  look  round  at  each  other,  and  grasp  hands, 
with  great,  choking  sobs.  Two  minutes  more,  and  they  were  in  the 
boat,  pulling,  for  their  lives,  up  and  down  those  awful  sea-ridges, 
towards  where  they  hoped  to  find  the  Grampus.  And  from  the' 
peak  of  one,  as  it  lifted  them,  they  saw  the  Adelheid  make  a  great 
swirl,  and  go  down." 

"  Did  they  get  back  safe  to  the  Grampus  ?  "  asked  Say,  breath- 
less, when  the  Captain  paused. 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  he  replied,  lightly.  "  Hasn't  Oakman  just  come 
home  with  me,  in  the  Pearl  ?  " 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  you  like  to  be  such  a  man,  Gershie  ?  "  cried  Say. 

Gershom  sat  still,  and  made  no  answer,  now.  In  his  heart,  he 
said  to  himself,  that,  if  he  lived,  he  meant  to  be  such  a  man. 

After  this  story,  Mr.  Gair  and  the  Captain  got  to  talking  about 
Hamburg,  and  Elsinore,  and  Copenhagen,  and  St.  Petersburg,  and 
the  Russia  trade,  till  Say  curled  herself  up  on  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
and  went  to  sleep  ;  soothed  by  a  confused,  dreamy  repetition  of 
hemp,  and  duck,  and  bolt-rope,  and  pig-iron,  and  duties,  and  con- 
signments, and  bills  of  exchange,  and  Steiglitz  and  Co. ;  and  Ger- 
shom sat,  half  listening,  going  over  again,  all  the  while,  in  imagina- 
tion, the  scenes  on  board  the  disabled  Pearl,  and  the  foundering 
Adelheid  ;  till,  by  and  by,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  Captain  departed,  and 
the  boy,  as  well  as  Say,  went  off  to  bed  ,  not  to  sleep  ;  to  lie  awake 
till  after  the  slow,  deep  voices  of  the  city  bells  had  clanged  out, 
one  to  another,  from  different  points,  the  strokes  of  twelve ;  as  a 
thought,  wrought  slowly  toward  the  birth,  in  different  souls,  an- 
nounces itself  at  last,  from  opposite  sides  the  earth,  when  the  hour 


ioo  The  Gayworthys. 

is  ripe ;  thinking,  feverishly,  of  all  that  he  had  heard  ;  of  the  free, 
brave  life  that  enticed  him  forth  to  make  it  his  own ;  of  the  ties 
that  held  him  to  his  home  among  the  hills  ;  of  how  he  would  write 
to  his  grandfather,  and  tell  him,  truly,  all  he  felt ;  and  of  what  he 
should  say. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

PROVERBS. 

"  BUT  I  thought  you  were  all  fitted  for  college  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gair, 
with  a  fresh  recollection  and  surprise.  He  had  been  considerably 
surprised  this  afternoon. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Gershom.  "But  grandfather  always  said, 
that  fitted  for  college  was  fitted  for  anything.  He  never  made  me 
feel  as  if  I  had  got  to  go." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  the  means  of  your  disappointing  him, 
though,"  rejoined  the  merchant.  "  I  shouldn't  feel  warranted  in 
encouraging  such  a  notion,  unless  I  knew  what  he  would  say  to  it, 
first." 

"  No,  sir.  That's  what  I  mean  to  find  out.  But  I  didn't  want  to 
trouble  him  at  all,  till  I  knew  whether  I  could  have  a  chance  or  not." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  all  this,  Captain  Burley  ?  ' 

The  two  gentlemen  sat  in  Mr.  Gair's  inner  counting-room.  The 
boy  stood  there,  before  them,  cap  in  hand,  his  eyes  glowing,  his 
whole  face  eager  with  the  intensity  of  the  wish  he  had  come  there 
to  make  known. 

"  I  should  say,"  replied  the  hearty  Captain,  looking  upon  the  lad 
with  a  certain  approving  recognition,  "  that  he'd  got  it." 

"What?" 

"  Ship-fever.  The  sort  that  nothing  but  a  voyage  '11  work  off. 
And  not  that,  if  he's  the  stuff  he  looks  to  be,"  he  added,  in  an 
undertone  to  Mrs.  Gair. 

"Could  you  find  a  berth  for  him  aboard  the  Pearl  ?  " 

The  young  fellow's  eyes  glistened,  and  flashed  quick  at  Captain 
Burley  from  under  their  thick  lashes.  His  fingers  crushed  nerv- 
ously upon  his  cap-rim.  Captain  Burley  saw  it,  although  he  seemed 
to  be  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  There's  a  berth  for  him  somewhere  I  guess.  Always  a  place 
in  this  world  for  everything  that's  made,  and  he's  made  for  a 
sailor,  if  I  know  the  signs.  Write  to  your  grandfather,  young  man  ; 
and  when  you  get  your  answer,  come  down  aboard  the  Pearl,  and 
let  me  know." 

"  Thank  you,  sir."  With  a  great  gulp  back  of  his  heart  into  its 
place,  that  had  seemed  to  spring  into  his  throat  with  the  sudden 
throb  of  joy.  "  Uncle  Reuben  !  " 

"Well?" 


Proverbs.  101 

"  I  think,  if  you  please,  we  might  as  well  not  say  any  more  about 
this  till  we  hear  from  Hilbury.  I  don't  think  1  could  bear  being 
disappointed  of  it,  if  it  were  much  talked  over." 

"  There's  where  you're  right,  boy.  We'll  say  no  more  till  Satur- 
day. Write  to-day,  and  you'll  get  your  answer  by  then.  The 
Pearl  won't  sail  for  a  week,  at  least.  An  hour's  notice  will  be 
long  enough  to  get  your  outfit." 

Mr.  Gair  turned  round  to  his  desk  and  his  papers.  Gershom 
went  out,  and  down-stairs.  Up  the  wharf,  to  where  the  Pearl  lay. 
He  sprang  over  the  gang-plank,  and  on  board.  Getting  in  cargo. 
All  bustle,  and  apparent  confusion.  He  went  forward,  and  leaned 
against  the  bulwark  looking  over  the  bow.  He  laid  his  hand 
lovingly  on  the  solid  timbers,  as  if  the  vessel  were  a  living  thing, 
to  be  caressed  and  delighted  in  with  a  tenderness.  He  looked 
down  into  the  forecastle.  That  was  to  be  his  home.  Here  he 
should  have  bold,  brave  fellows  for  companions;  here  he  should 
listen  to  stories  of  daring  and  danger,  and  the  wild,  strange  hap- 
penings of  sea-life,  and  the  wonders  of  far-off  lands.  Here  he 
should  grow  strong  and  hardy  for  great  deeds  of  his  own.  It  was 
all  a  poem  and  a  romance.  He  never  thought  of  brutal  captains, 
or  of  coarse,  degraded  men  ;  of  mean  tyrannies,  or  low  contamina- 
tions ;  of  all  he  might  meet,  all  he  must  meet,  in  an  apprenticeship 
of  years  to  this  profession  that  he  would  choose.  He  was  to  look 
up  to  men  like  Burley  and  Oakman ;  he  was  to  stand,  by  and  by, 
in  places  like  theirs.  The  Captain's  words  were  ringing  in  his 
ears ;  "  God  looks  down  out  of  heaven  on  no  braver  nor  better 
thing !" 

He  stood  there,  with  ihe  firm,  even  deck  under  his  feet,  and 
longed  to  feel  it  bounding  away  upon  the  free  ocean  that  he  knew 
only  in  fancy.  To  be  out  there,  "  between  sea  and  sky,"  even  if  it 
were  "  in  mortal  peril !  " 

Captain  Burley  had  said  right,  It  was  a  fever  that  was  upon 
him.  The  fever  that  a  boy  must  have, — if  the  boy  be  but  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  man, — when  the  fire  within  him  kindles,  whatever  it 
may  be  that  sets  it  alight.  Books,  or  tools,  or  soldiering,  or  sea- 
faring,— it  is  all  the  same  ;  the  force  that  is  in  him  wakes,  and 
grasps  at  something ;  and  the  soul  that  is  in  him  lifts  that  some- 
thing up,  and  idealizes  it  into  a  divineness  of  life,  and  wreathes  it 
with  a  glory.  Most  of  all,  perhaps,  when  from  a  quiet  country  life 
like  Gershom's  back  among  the  hills, — where  he  has  dreamed  of 
the  great  waters,  and  the  ships  that  go  up  and  down  thereon — he 
comes  first  to  behold  the  infinite  glitter  of  the  sea,  and  his  eyes  are 
smitten  with  its  far-off  gleam,  and  the  tingle  of  its  brine  is  in  his 
nostrils,  till  he  chafes  to  be  off  and  away  upon  it,  and  any  dry-land 
life  grows  tame  compared  with  its  boundless  promise,  its  rousing 
demand  upon  all  his  flushing  manhood, 

There  is  no  possession  like  the  possession  of  the  boy  who  craves 
to  be  a  sailor. 


102  The  Gayvvorthys. 

Gershom  could  not  have  gone  straight  out  from  that  counting 
room  and  gone  up  those  stifled  streets,  properly,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  there  were  no  need  for  him,  any  more  than  for  all 
the  rest  of  the  luboerly  people,  to  throw  up  his  cap  with  a  shout, 
when  words  were  thrilling  in  his  ears  that  offered  a  fulfilment  of 
this  hope  of  his  that  had  slumbered  within  him,  growing  stronger 
in  its  sleep,  for  years.  He  must  needs  have  stood  first,  for  those 
few  moments,  on  the  deck  of  the  Pearl  once  more. 

Then  he  walked  up  through  the  town  to  Hill  Street,  quietly 
enough  to  outward  show,  but  with  a  bound  in  his  veins  that  made 
the  bricked  sidewalk  seem  to  spring  beneath  his  feet ;  his  young 
brain  busy  with  all  manner  of  eager  thoughts. 

"  Gershie's  got  his  door  locked  ! "  cried  Say,  in  an  ill-used  voice 
an  hour  or  two  after.  "  And  when  I  called  to  him,  he  told  me  to 
run  away.  And  I  haven't  got  anything  to  do  ;  and  I  wanted  him 
to  play  Happiness  with  me  ;  and  it'll  be  tea-time  presently." 

Mrs.  Gair's  face  took  on  a  cloudy  expression.  "  He's  mighty 
independent,  I  think,"  said  she,  more  to  herself  than  to  the  child, 
"  considering  all  things." 

"  He  wouldn't  take  me  down  to  the  wharf,  this  afternoon.  And 
he's  been  shut  up  in  his  room,  ever  since  he  got  home." 

Mrs.  Gair's  face  grew  suddenly  placid.  Her  tone  smoothed 
itself,  also ;  and  it  was  a  very  sweet  and  timely  admonition  to 
unselfishness  that  she  was  all  at  once  inspired  to  give  her  little 
daughter. 

"  Well,  never  mind,  Say.  He'll  come  presently.  I  suppose  he 
wants  to  be  by  himself,  sometimes.  You  mustn't  be  exacting.  It 
is  very  wrong  and  disagreeable  for  little  girls  to  expect  older  people 
to  attend  to  them  all  the  time." 

Say  seldom  persisted  in  the  wrong  and  disagreeable.  She  had 
been  very  patient,  already ;  and  appealed  only  when  her  small 
endurance  had  been  tried  nearly  too  far.  She  sat  down  to  Happi- 
ness alone ;  such  happiness  as  she  could  make  out  of  it  so.  That 
was  the  child's  nature,  Ah,  the  prophecies  that  are  in  these  dawn- 
ing traits  of  temperament  and  capacity !  Can  the  child  bear  quietly 
— console  itself  easily — wait  long  ?  There  is  never  a  power  with- 
out a  demand  for  it.  It  needs  no  reading  of  a  horoscope,  no 
palmister's  divining,  to  tell  something  of  the  life-lines  of  such.  Is 
there  busy  activity — skill — contrivance  ?  An  aptitude  to  make 
much  out  of  a  little  ?  Be  sure  that  when  the  germs  of  these  were 
hidden  in  the  baby-brain,  there  was  no  "  silver  spoon  "  laid  ready 
for  the  lips. 

Mrs.  Gair  got  up  presently,  and  left  the  room.  When  she  re- 
entered  five  minutes  afterward,  her  face  was  even  more  beautifully 
serene  than  before.  She  told  her  parlor-maid,  who  came  to  lay 
the  table  in  the  inner  room,  that  tea  need  not  be  hurried ;  Mr. 
Gair  had  not  come  in  ;  in  fact,  she  was  busy  herself,  and  should 
not  object  to  its  being  half  an  hour  later  than  usual.  A  Uttle 


Proverbs.  103 

momentary  pause,  that  she  had  made,  up-stairs,  before  a  closed 
door,  might  or  might  not  have  had  to  do  with  this.  I  should  not 
like  to  say  she  stooped,  as  well  as  paused,  there,  for  an  instant. 
People  do  stoop,  sometimes,  however, — when  there  is  something 
they  have  special  occasion  to  pick  up. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  busy  writing  his  letter  to  the  Doctor.  By 
and  by,  his  step  came  down  the  stairs.  A  little  softly,  I  must 
own  ;  for  Gershom  had  his  own  business  to  manage,  now ;  and  he 
had  learned  that  in  Mrs.  Jane  Gair's  house  business  must  often  be 
managed  softly.  Mrs.  Jane  heard  him,  however ;  saying  nothing  ; 
but  making  a  sudden  noise  with  pulling  the  heavy  table  a  little 
nearer  to  herself,  instead  of  moving  her  easily-rolling  chair  towards 
the  table.  Gershom  got  by  the  parlor  door,  and  out  into  the  street, 
without  recall  or  hindrance.  At  the  risk  of  being  late  to  tea,  and 
getting  a  glum  look  from  Aunt  Jane,  he  must  post  his  letter,  him- 
self, to-night.  Aunt  Jane  knew  that,  perhaps,  as  well  as  he  did. 
But  tea  was  a  little  late,  as  we  have  seen  it  was  meant  to  be ;  and 
Mr.  Gair  was  still  chatting  with  Say  upon  his  knee,  when  Gershom 
came  in  ;  his  face  flushed  and  his  hair  damp,  with  all  the  exercise 
he  had  taken,  and  the  excitement  he  had  had,  that  warm,  summer- 
like,  May  afternoon. 

"  Well,  Gershom,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  as  he  cut  off  two  or  three  of 
the  curling  spires  from  the  form  of  fresh  butter,  that  was  done  up, 
in  a  way  they  had  in  Hilbury,  like  a  golden  pineapple,  by  some 
mysterious  dinting  and  shaving, — "  have  you  attended  to  your 
affairs  as  you  proposed  ?  " 

Mr.  Gair  was  always  flying  kites,  and  catching  the  electric  cur- 
rent ;  learning  no  wisdom  by  getting  so  much  more  of  it,  often, 
than  he  at  all  wanted.  Gershom  wondered  at  Uncle  Reuben's 
way  of  keeping  a  secret ;  and  felt,  with  a  flash  of  dismay,  that  it 
was  all  out,  now,  hopelessly  ;  and  must  be  discussed,  over  and 
over,  through  and  through.  Aunt  Jane  was  quick  on  the  scent, 
and  a  thorough  mouser  ;  no  small  rodent  could  show  nose  or  tail 
out  of  his  hole,  with  any  hope  of  whisking  it  back  again  in  safety 
from  her  nimble  claw.  But  somebody  caught  something,  once, 
and  let  it  go  again  ;  to  grow.  Aunt  Jane  was  busy  with  the  tea- 
pot, which,  she  told  the  maid,  had  grown  cold ;  and  bade  her,  with 
some  displeasure,  fetch  boiling  water.  "  I  have  told  you  so  often, 
Winny,  that  Mr.  Gair  must  have  his  tea  hot."  And  when  she 
turned  round  again,  it  was  to  admonish  Say  to  sit  straight,  and 
tuck  her  napkin  under  her  chin,  and  to  keep  her  elbows  off  the 
table.  Gershom  only  said  "  yes,  sir ;  "  and  found,  to  his  very  great 
surprise  and  relief,  that  question  and  answer  both  passed  un- 
noticed. 

It  was  astonishing  how  Aunt  Jane  entered  into  the  children's 
amusements  that  evening !  She  played  Happiness  with  them ; 
and  then  they  had  out  the  bagatelle  board,  which  she  usually  op- 
posed ;  the  balls,  she  said,  made  her  so  nervous.  But  she  rolled, 


io4  The  Gayvvorthys. 

herself,  to-night ;  and  people  don't  mind  a  noise  when  they  help  to 
make  it.  She  kept  them  ingeniously  busy  ;  so  that  Say  was  con- 
founded when  the  nine  o'clock  bell  rang ;  and  after  the  child  had 
gone  to  bed.  Mr.  Gair  being  quite  absorbed  in  his  Journal  of 
Commerce,  Mrs.  Gair  took  up  the  Lady ' s  Book,  and  when  she  was 
reading,  nobody  ever  talked.  Gershom  was  rapt  and  happy  in 
Ross's  Voyages.  For  the  most  part,  therefore,  there  was  a  pin- 
drop  silence,  until  they  separated  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Gair  was 
reading,  apparently;  and  looking  at  Fashions;  really,  she  was 
playing  proverbs  ;  "  None  so  deaf  as  those  who  won't  hear."  And, 
"  let  well  enough  alone." 

I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Mrs.  Jane  had  been  only  half  as  deter- 
mined to  hear,  as  she  was  not  to  hear,  the  whole  matter  would 
have  come  out,  up-stairs,  after  all,  in  matrimonial  retirement. 
But  she  was  very  tired,  and  not  conversationally  disposed. 

It  is  sometimes  so  well  to  have  known  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   EXPECTANT   SYSTEM. 

Now,  Mrs.  Gair  exploded.  Now,  Mrs.  Gair  was  righteously 
indignant  at  this  that  had  been  done.  Now,  it  was  quite  safe  to 
use  the  utmost  of  her  breath  against  the  flame,  and  she  blew 
accordingly. 

"  Well !  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  thing.  Nobody  con- 
sulted me.  Gershom  has  been  very  sly.  He  knew  I  disapproved 
his  going  so  much  to  the  wharf,  and  hanging  about  the  Pearl.  I 
saw  what  it  was  likely  to  come  to.  I  told  him,  a  week  ago,  that  I 
must  write  to  his  grandfather  about  it,  and  that's  what  I  ought  to 
have  done.  It's  a  great  shame  for  him  to  disappoint  father  so, 
after  all  his  kindness ;  and  I  doubt  if  he  finds  it  answer  to  his  in- 
terest, in  the  end.  But  it's  no  use  to  talk.  There  isn't  any  help 
for  it,  now.  They  can't  blame  me  at  any  rate." 

"  But  perhaps  it  can  be  helped,"  returned  Mr.  Gair,  quite  over- 
whelmed by  his  wife's  view  of  the  subject,  and  the  sudden  sense  it 
gave  him  of  his  own  guilt.  "  Gershom  wouldn't  persist,  if  he 
thought  it  was  such  a  serious  matter  with  the  old  gentleman. 
Hadn't  you  better  speak  to  him  again  ?  " 

"No, — I've  done.  The  fancy  ought  to  have  been  kept  out  of 
his  head,  in  the  first  place.  Now  it's  there,  and  father  knows  it, 
there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  He  wouldn't  send  him  to  college 
against  his  inclinations ;  but  what  he  hoped  was,  that  he  might 
incline  to  go.  It's  all  up  with,  now  ;  the  milk's  spilt ;  and  it's  no 
use  making  anybody  uneasy.  Only,  don't  let  them  blame  me. 
7've  been  kept  in  the  dark." 


The  Expectant  System.  105 

Mr.  Gair  began  to  feel  quite  miserable.  As  if  he  had  been  doing 
something  mean  and  secret  ;  working  against  his  father-in-law's 
wish  and  will.  As  if  he  had  done  Gershom,  too,  a  vital  diservice. 
This  splash,  and  sense  of  uncleanness,  he  got  by  standing  by  while 
his  wife  "washed  her  hands." 

Do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Gair  saw  her  own  double-dealing  in  its 
true  light  ?  I  don't.  It  is  only  to  the  single  eye  that  self  stands 
illumined.  In  the  body  that  is  full  of  darkness,  there  are  secret 
lurking-places  below  where  vision  reaches  ;  and  here  lie  motives 
that  are  never  looked  at  ;  thoughts  that  are  never  set  in  words ; 
involuntary  springs  that  send  out  their  odyllic  force  without  the 
intervention  of  even  mental  muscle.  I  think  she  told  herself  with 
a  certain  real  outside  indignation,  strangely  coexisting  with  a  more 
interior  satisfaction,  that  she  had  been  set  aside, — unfairly  treated. 
And  she  made  the  most,  to  herself,  as  well  as  to  others,  of  her 
injury  and  her  position.  None  the  less  an  injury  because  of  the 
great  good  luck  she  felt  it,  and  the  little  intention  she  had  had,  all 
along,  of  being  treated  precisely  so.  This  she  never  took  into  the 
account.  She  meant  to  do  nothing  unjustifiable  ;  she  had  done 
nothing.  She  had  seen  how  things  were  tending  ;  very  well,  let 
them  tend ;  now,  they  had  resulted,  and  she  stood  absolved.  If, 
as  it  turned  out,  it  were  all  the  better  for  her.  what  then  ?  She 
might  not  be  sorry  to  have  Prue's  great  boy  well  out  of  the  way  ; 
she  might  not  be  sorry  if  even  his  altered  course  in  life  should  alter 
her  father's  intentions  towards  him  ;  yet,  all  the  same,  he  had  put 
himself  out  of  the  way,  of  his  own  free  will.  He  himself,  had  for- 
feited whatever  he  might  lose.  It  was  no  doing  of  hers.  If  he 
sailed  away,  some  day,  and  never  came  back,  even. — there  were 
many  chances  of  this  in  a  sea  life, — the  responsibility  lay  not  at 
her  door. 

Jane  Gair  !  You  will  not  find  yourself  able,  to  the  very  end,  to 
forward  your  intents  thus  passively.  Practice  upon  the  "  expect- 
ant" theory  will  not  suffice  for  all  crises.  There  will  come  test 
hours,  when  the  hand  must  be  put  forth,  or  stayed  ;  when  the  seal 
of  deed  must  be  set  to  the  secret  motive.  Satan  will  have  nothing 
less  than  the  sign-manual  of  his  own.  at  the  last. 

There  had  come  an  answer  from  Hilbury.  Kindly,  free-hearted  ; 
indicating  little  of  the  pain  that  must  have  lain  behind.  "  I  am 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  reading  it  over  for  the  second  time,  after  that 
unpleasant  sense  of  complicity  had  been  put  upon  him,  "  I  don't 
see  that  the  Doctor  takes  it  so  much  to  heart,  after  all." 

"  There  is  scope  for  nobleness  in  every  profession,"  wrote  the 
good  old  physician,  in  reply  to  Gershom's  enthusiastic  reasoning 
in  behalf  of  his  desire.  "  It  takes  a  whole  man  to  be  really  any- 
thing. And  even  physical  bravery  may  come  in  play,  as  you 
would  find,  not  seldom,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  vocation  that  must  now 
and  then  set  a  man's  thought  for  his  own  life  and  limb,  to  say 
nothing  of  comfort,  against  his  care  for  lives  and  limbs  of  others. 


106  The  Gayworthys. 

I  have  spent  many  a  dark  night  among  the  hills,  here,  whose  peril 
was  not  less,  perhaps,  than  that  of  the  sailor  in  the  same  dark 
night,  at  sea.  Alone,  too  ;  I  and  my  old  nag ;  God  with  us,  as 
everywhere, — that  was  all.  And  there  have  been  men  of  my  call- 
ing in  camps  and  hospitals,  in  times  of  war  and  pestilence,  and 
will  need  to  be,  now  and  then,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts,  as  brave 
in  the  face  of  death  and  destruction  as  God  ever  let  a  great  soul 
be. 

" Yet,  if  your  whole  heart  is  bent  on  this, — go,  boy; 

and  God  bless  you  !  Come  first,  and  say  good-by,  though,  if  you 
can." 

This  letter,  with  one  also  from  his  mother,  Gershom  got  on 
Saturday  evening,  sent  down  by  way  of  Winthorpe.  On  Sunday, 
the  subject  was  first  broached  openly  in  the  household  in.  Hill 
Street.  We  have  seen  how  it  was  met  by  Mrs.  Gair.  She  washed 
her  hands  of  the  whole  thing,  and  went  to  church.  She  was  a 
zealous  churchwoman,  here  in  Selport,  where  Episcopalianism  was 
the  height  of  fashion ;  and  sat,  every  Sunday,  in  a  pew  behind 
the  Topliffs,  in  the  handsomest  sacred  edifice  in  town.  She  prayed 
God,  to-day,  with  all  the  people,  to  "  defend  and  provide  for  the 
fatherless  children  and  widows";  to  deliver  her  from  "evil  and 
mischief,"  and  "  privy  conspiracy  "  ;  and  all  the  while,  away  down 
in  that  dark  place  of  her  heart,  among  its  unexamined  things,  the 
thought  was  lying,  pulsing  out  by  snatches — never  acknowledged 
or  entire — like  a  phosphoric  writing :  "  He  has  made  his  own 
bed,  now,  and  must  lie  upon  it.  The  thing  works  well."  Then, 
the  glimmer  of  a  doubt, — "  father  is  foolishly  indulgent  and 
patient  with  him,  after  all.  What  if  it  shouldn't  make  any  par- 
ticular difference  ?  "  Still,  in  ti.e  fine  soul-type  I  have  spoken  of 
before ;  not  looked  upon  deliberately,  or  read.  Heart-evil  does 
not  denude  itself  in  shameless  monologue.  It  never  sets  itself  off, 
objectively,  even  to  its  most  secret  consciousness.  Mrs.  Gair  was 
making  her  responses  in  the  Litany  ;  and  she  made  them  all,  even 
to  the  last ;  feeling  no  shudder  of  dread  at  her  desert,  when  to  the 
utterance,  "  Lord,  deal  not  with  us  according  to  our  sins,"  she 
answered,  with  the  rest,  "  Neither  reward  us  according  to  our 
iniquities." 

"  Do  you  think  grandfather  is  very  sorry  about  it  ? "  asked 
Gershom,  suddenly,  when  he  and  Aunt  Jane  were  walking  home 
together  from  afternoon  service. 

"  If  you  had  asked  my  advice  before,  Gershom, — which  you 
didn't, — "  (Mrs.  Gair  meant  that  this  should  be  well  kept  in 
mind), —  "I  should  have  said  he  would  be,  very  sorry;  perhaps 
angry  ;  but  he  seems  to  take  it  more  contentedly  than  I  could  have 
supposed.  He  wanted  you  to  be  a  doctor,  and  come  after  him  ; 
there's  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  perhaps  if  you'd  known  exactly  on 
which  side  your  bread  was  buttered,  you'd  have  made  up  your 
mind  to ;  but  children  always  manage  to  drop  the  buttered  side 


The  Expectant  System.  107 

down,  and  seem  to  like  it  all  the  better ;  and  if,  as  he  says,  your 
whole  heart  is  bent  on  this  thing,  instead,  he's  glad  that  you 
should  tell  him,  honestly.  I  dare  say  he'll  get  reconciled.  Es- 
pecially, if  you  show  him  you  can  stick  to  your  choice,  now  you've 
made  it." 

"  No  danger  but  I'll  do  that,"  said  the  boy. 

"  He  knows,  at  any  rate,  there's  nothing  mean-spirited  in  your 
motives,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  encouragingly ;  "  and  I  will  say, — for 
it's  as  well  to  look  on  the  bright  side  when  a  thing  is  settled, — that 
it  may  appear  better  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  perhaps,  than  if  you 
hung  round,  all  your  life,  dependent  on  what  he  could  do  for  you  ; 
being,  you  know,  Gershie,  no  blood  relation,  after  all." 

Wherever  the  current  sprang  from  that  ran  in  the  boy's  veins, 
it  tingled  a  little,  swiftly  and  sharply,  as  Aunt  Jane  said  this ; 
and  a  sudden  quickened  perception  startled  him  with  a  glimpse  at 
the  depth  of  her  meaning.  Nobody  had  ever  reminded  Gershom, 
in  plain  words,  before,  that  he  did  not  belong,  by  claim  of  nature, 
to  them  whose  love  and  care  he  had  received,  and  to  whom  he  had 
returned  the  love,  and  such  service  as  he  could  render,  for  all  those 
years  of  his  young  life ;  and  the  reminder  thrust  him  off,  for  the 
first  time,  from  his  unquestioning  reliance.  Truly,  life  and  death 
are  in  the  power  of  the  tongue  !  It  would  have  irked  him  sorely, 
now,  after  those  few  words,  to  go  back  to  the  old  place  again,  and 
make  his  home  there,  if  he  had  not  already  chosen  otherwise. 
Something  brought  back  to  his  mind,  also,  associated  with  these, 
those  other  words  Aunt  Jane  had  used,  that  evening  when  they 
talked  together  in  the  parlor  window  at  twilight.  "  That  depends 
on  what  there  is  to  go  back  for.  People  must  think  what  is  for 
their  interest."  She  could  talk  both  ways,  then  ?  Or  did  her 
words  tend  two  ways  ?  They  touched  him  with  a  like  feeling ;  a 
feeling  that  became  now,  all  at  once,  quite  definite.  She  was  so 
ready  to  "  look  at  the  bright  side,  now  all  was  settled  !  "  She  had 
been  apparently  so  displeased  when  the  plan  was  first  made  known 
to  her,  that  very  morning !  What  did  Aunt  Jane  mean  ?  Did 
she  approve  or  disapprove  ?  Was  she,  as  he  used  to  say  of  her  fine 
notions  and  manners,  in  his  rude  honest  childhood,  all  a  sham  ? 
He  drew  away,  a  little  from  her  side  towards  the  curbstone,  as 
these  thoughts  ran  through  his  mind  ;  he  drew  away  yet  further, 
in  spirit ;  as  he  had  never  drawn  himself  from  human  soul  before. 
The  first  chill  of  intimate  distrust  had  touched  him,  with  a  shiver. 
In  this  world  there  must  be  offenses  ;  but  woe  to  that  one  by  whom 
the  offense  first  cometh ! 

It  was  a  hard  day's  journey,  then,  from  the  city  to  Hilbury  ; 
and  the  stage  that  "  connected  "  with  the  trains  to  and  from  Selport 
ran  up  and  down  on  alternate  days  ;  meeting  the  afternoon  "  down 
train  "  on  Monday,  and  waiting  for  mail  and  passengers  by  Tuesday 
morning's  "  up."  So  Gershom  was  to  report  himself  aboard  the 
Pearl  on  Monday  ;  sign  his  shipping  articles,  and  go  with  his  uncle 


io8  The  Gayworthys. 

to  get  his  "  protection,"  and  his  sea  rig ;  and  on  Tuesday,  make  his 
hasty  journey  to  say  good-by,  returning  on  Wednesday  ;  since  to 
put  i't  off  till  Friday  would  be  too  late.  The  Pearl  would  probably 
sail  on  Thursday  or  on  Friday  morning  at  farthest.  So  the  plan 
stood  until  at  noon  on  Monday ;  when  Mr.  Gair  and  Gershom,  re- 
turning together  to  the  counting-room,  from  the  Custom  House, 
found  Captain  Burley  waiting  there. 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Gair,  "  that  we  could  clear  to- 
morrow as  well  as  not,  and  be  off  next  morning,  if  this  weather 
holds.  We  must  look  for  a  change  at  the  new  moon  ;  and  a  day's 
start,  with  such  a  wind  as  this,  might  make  a  week's  difference  in 
the  voyage." 

"  That's  true,"  rejoined  the  merchant.  "  Can  Peterson  manage 
it?" 

"  He  says  so,  if  those  last  fifty  bales  get  down  in  time." 

"  I'll  see  to  that.  Come  in  to-morrow  at  ten,  and  I'll  have  your 
papers  ready.  I  guess  we'll  get  her  off. — But,  hallo !  here's  this 
youngster.  What  are  we  going  to  do  about  you  ?  " 

"  Time  and  tide  waits  for  no  man,"  said  Captain  Burley,  good- 
humoredly.  "  Nor  a  good  vessel,  when  she's  ready  for  sea,  with 
a  fair  wind.  I  suppose  it  must  be  '  go  or  stay '  with  him.  Are 
you  sailor  enough  to  say  '  go,'  and  write  your  good-bys  ?  That  is, 
if  you  must  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  /  never  do.  Just 
take  my  hat,  and  walk  off ;  and  they  never  know  when  it's  the  last 
time." 

The  child  and  the  man  struggled  together  with  Gershom  at  that 
moment.  He  was  boy  enough  to  yearn  for  his  mother's  kiss  be- 
fore he  went ;  he  was  too  much  a  man  to  shrink  from  what  he  had 
voluntarily  chosen.  He  was  sailor  enough,  or  it  seemed  so,  then, 
to  feel  that  he  could  not  let  the  beautiful  Pearl  go  down  that  blue 
horizon,  leaving  him  behind. 

"  I  suppose  there  wouldn't  be  much  chance  of  her  not  sailing?" 
he  asked. 

"  Not  much,  I  guess,  if  Captain  Burley  has  made  up  his  mind." 

"  Then  I  say  '  go,'  "  said  Gershom,  with  steady  tone  and  eye, 
and  a  tender  curve  of  lip  that  in  no  way  weakened,  but  rather  drew 
a  dash  of  emphasis  below  his  word. 

"  You're  the  sort.  Come  aboard  at  nine,  on  Wednesday,"  said 
the  Captain. 

On  Tuesday,  two  letters  crossed  each  other  between  Selport  and 
Hilbury.  Gershom  had  written  to  his  mother  on  Monday  evening, 
saying  how  it  was,  and  that  he  must  bid  good-by  so,  or  relinquish 
the  voyage  for  which  all  his  preparations  were  now  made  ;  saying 
this  in  a  sturdy,  matter-of-fact  way  on  paper,  while  his  hand  went 
up  from  the  very  writing  to  brush  away  a  tear  his  mother  might 
not  know  of.  Manly  words,  with  a  child's  homesick  tenderness  at 
heart.  He  thanked  his  grandfather  for  his  consent  and  help  ;  and, 
after  that  word  of  Aunt  Jane's,  could  not  forbear  adding  that  "  now 


The  Expectant  System.  109 

he  was  put  in  the  way  of  fulfilling  this  great  wish  that  he  had  had 
so  long,  he  felt  sure  he  need  never  again  be  any  trouble  or  anxiety 
to  them  at  home  ;  he  could  make  a  place  and  an  independence  for 
himself  in  the  world  ;  which  was  what  he  ought  to  be  able  for, 
after  all  that  had  been  done  for  him  in  the  past."  These  words, 
of  a  proud  gratitude,  touched  the  good  Doctor  a  little  sorely. 

Mrs.  Vorse  wrote  a  letter  to  her  stepsister,  on  Monday,  which 
she  sent  down  to  Winthorpe  by  a  private  hand.  It  came  into  Sel- 
port  by  Tuesday's  evening  mail,  and  Mr.  Gair  received  it  at  the 
office,  on  his  way  home  at  nine  o'clock,  from  a  meeting  upon  a  ref- 
erence case.  Gershom  had  gone  up  to  bed  when  he  came  in  and 
handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"  Anything  special  ?"  he  asked,  as  Mrs.  Gair  glanced  down  the 
pages. 

"  O  no,"  Jane  replied.  "  Pretty  much,  I  suppose,  what  she  has 
written  to  Gershom  himself.  Motherly  directions  ;  she  wants  me 
to  see  to  this  and  that  for  him  which  she  can't  be  here  to  see  to 
herself.  Nothing,  I  believe,  but  what  has  been  done." 

"  I  suppose  they've  been  looking  for  him,  to-night ;  it'll  be  con- 
siderable of  a  disappointment." 

"  Ye s,"  said  Mrs.  Gair,  absently.  Her  eye  had  fallen  upon 

this  little  postscript  to  the  letter. 

"  Of  course  we  shall  expect  him  up  to-morrow.  If  it  wasn't  for 
that,  I  don't  think  we  could  have  consented  at  all.  Tell  him  this. 
I  must  see  him  again  ;  and  his  grandfather  will  take  it  almost 
harder  than  I,  not  to  say  good-by  to  him.  Don't  let  him,  on  any 
account,  be  prevented  from  coming,  if  he  has  not  left  for  home 
before  this  reaches  you.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Jane,  though 
there  is  no  need  for  any  special  worry,  I  don't  think  the  Doctor 
seems  quite  so  smart  as  common  this  spring.  I  can  see  he's  a 
good  deal  down-hearted  about  letting  Gershom  go,  though  he 
makes  no  opposition  ;  and  I  can't  help  being  afraid  it  may  wear 
upon  him." 

Mrs.  Gair  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket.  She  went  round,  pres- 
ently, setting  back  the  chairs,  and  looking  to  the  window  fasten- 
ings, for  the  night.  Fastening  something  else,  also,  back  in  her 
own  knowledge,  for  the  over-night,  at  least. 

Should  she  tell  Gershom,  in  the  morning,  of  this  that  his  mother 
had  written  ?  She  would  not  decide  within  herself  that  she  should 
not ;  she  would  consider.  Neither  would  she  show  the  whole 
letter  to  her  husband,  and  ask  him  what  ought  to  be  done.  Ah, 
that  might  decide  it  too  precipitately !  So  she  went  to  bed,  first 
laying  the  letter  in  a  little  side  drawer  of  her  bureau,  among  others 
that  had  come  from  home. 

With  the  dark  hours,  came  thoughts  and  misgiving.  She  hardly 
dared  withhold  this  word  from  the  boy.  She  wished  Prue  had  not 
written  so  foolishly,  throwing  such  responsibility  upon  her.  She 
had  been  so  resolved  to  do  nothing  in  this  matter,  which  had 


no  The  Gayworthys. 

ripened  itself  so  beautifully  to  her  wishes.  The  "  expectant " 
system  had  hitherto  worked  so  well ! 

In  the  morning,  she  was  braver.  Her  judgment  was  cool,  and 
asserted  itself.  She  knew  best,  being  here  upon  the  spot,  what  was 
best  to  be  done.  Prue  had  written  in  ignorance  of  the  actual  cir- 
cumstances. There  had  been  no  idea  that  the  vessel  was  to  sail  so 
soon.  She  had  got  Gershom's  letter,  by  this  time,  bidding  good- 
bv,  and  explaining  it  all.  The  thing  had  been  settled  ;  how  absurd 
il  would  be  to  unsettle  it  all,  again  !  The  boy  would  be  good  for 
nothing,  if  he  were  balked  of  this  voyage,  and  sent  home  now. 
And,  of  course,  it  would  be  only  cruel  to  give  him  a  discomfort  to 
go  away  with  ! 

She  knew  very  well,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  if  Gershom  Vorse 
had  read  those  words,  even  at  the  last  moment,  he  would  not 
have  gone  away.  Bitter  as  it  might  have  been,  he  would  have 
waited. 

"  It's  very  hard,"  said  Aunt  Jane  to  herself,  as  she  went  down 
stairs  to  the  breakfast,  that  was  to  be  somewhat  earlier  than 
usual.  Gershom's  sea-chest  stood  inside  the  front  door.  A  car- 
riage was  to  come  at  half-past  eight.  "  It's  very  hard,"  thought 
the  lady,  "  to  be  placed  in  such  a  position.  I  daresay,  whatever  I 
do,  they'll  blame  me.  But  I  can  only  act  as  I  think  is  for  the  best, 
under  the  circumstances.  And  then,  my  conscience  will  be  clear." 

She  thought  it  for  the  best  to  tell  Gershom,  as  he  rose  from  the 
table, — the  poor  fellow's  appetite  would  have  been  quite  spoiled, 
had  she  mentioned  home  news  before, — that  she  had  heard  again 
from  his  mother,  chiefly  in  reference  to  the  little  matters  of  ar- 
rangement and  provision  for  the  voyage,  "  which,"  she  said,  "  have 
all  been  made,  I  believe,  very  much  as  she  suggests.  You  left  out 
those  four  new  linen  shirts,  didn't  you  ?  Your  mother  speaks  of 
that." 

"  Yes,"  Gershom  said.  "The  new  shirts  were  in  the  valise  that 
was  to  go  back  to  Hilbury."  He  stood  still,  an  instant,  as  if  wait- 
ing to  hear  if  there  were  any  more  particular  message  ;  I  think  he 
hardly  dared  trust  his  voice  to  ask  ;  but  nothing  more  was  said. 
And  that  was  all  he  heard  about  his  mother's  letter. 

I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Jane  Gair's  conscience,  after  this  wise  and 
prudent  action,  in  the  hard  position  she  found  herself  placed  in, 
was  quite  clear.  People  have  their  moral  idiosyncrasies,  which 
must  always  be  taken  into  account. 

The  Pearl  sailed  that  day  at  twelve  o'clock. 

At  the  same  hour,  the  stage  from  up-country  was  reeling  down 
the  hill  into  Baxter's  Mills  village,  the  horses  coming  in  upon  their 
customary  gallop.  Inside  was  an  old  gentleman,  who  had  not 
been  so  far  from  home  before  in  ten  years.  Going  down,  by  the 
train,  to  Selport.  No  other  than  our  simple-hearted,  splendid- 
souled  Hilbury  doctor. 

He  would  try  for  it.     Vessels  didn't  always  sail  on  the  day  fixed. 


The  Expectant  System.  in 

There  was  fog  in  the  hills  this  morning  ;  and  there  might  be — who 
could  tell  ?  southeast  wind  and  a  coming  storm  down  there  on  the 
coast.  Mahomet  couldn't  come  to  the  mountain  ;  the  mountain 
would  reverse  the  proverb,  and  come  down  to  Mahomet. 

He  had  reasoned  so  with  "  the  girls,"  at  home,  last  night,  when 
the  letter  had  come  that  set  them  at  first  looking  in  each  other's 
faces  with  a  blank,  utter  disappointment.  There  was  only  a 
chance ;  and  Prue  had  best  not  encounter  the  fatigue,  for  the  hope 
of  it.  But  the  doctor  would  go.  If  it  were  only  to  see  her  cast  off 
from  the  wharf,  and  shout  a  good-by,  as  the  brig  dropped  down 
the  harbor,  it  would  be  something  ;  or  to  go  out  from  the  Point, 
maybe,  in  a  boat,  and  speak  her  below.  Vessels  lay  off,  all  night, 
and  for  days,  at  anchor,  often,  in  the  fogs  that  come  up  at  this 
season.  So  he  packed  his  portmanteau  before  he  went  to  bed,  and 
one  of  the  farm  boys  drove  him  down  to  the  Bridge  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  take  the  early  stage. 

And  the  cars  rattled  and  crashed  along  their  level,  shining 
grade,  as  if  they  could  overtake  anything.  The  swift  motion  ex- 
hilarated the  old  Doctor,  and  gave  him  a  charming  childlike  confi- 
dence. 

"  You  came  up  on  the  train  this  morning  ?  "  says  he  to  the 
conductor. 

"  Ticket ! "  says  the  conductor  to  an  oblivious  passenger  oppo- 
site, with  a  little  backward  touch  of  the  left  hand  while  nodding  a 
reply  to  the  Doctor  on  the  right. 

"  Which  way  was  the  wind,  down  there  ?"  asked  the  old  man, 
anxiously. 

Conductors  get  used  to  all  kinds  of  queer  questions,  and  answer 
them  usually,  if  answerable,  with  a  mechanical  politeness,  not 
interesting  themselves  greatly  to  follow  out  or  piece  together  the 
indicia  they  offer  to  human  histories. 

"  Getting  a  touch  of  east,  I  believe.  This  weather  won't  hold 
long. — Ticket,  sir  ?  "  and  passed  on.  Dr\  Gayworthy  was  quite 
certain,  now,  that  he  should  see  his  boy. 

The  train  came  into  the  station  at  dusk.  The  wind  was  sharp 
east,  sure  enough,  and  the  smell  of  the  salt  water  came  up  into  the 
streets.  The  Doctor  caught  a  cab,  or  the  cabman  caught  the 
Doctor,  and  he  and  his  portmanteau  were  whirled  up  to  Hill  Street. 
Jane  Gair  and  her  husband  were  sitting  down  to  tea  in  the  back 
parlor.  The  bell  rang,  and  somebody  came  straight  in,  without  a 
question, 

"  Jane  !    Where's  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Father !     You  here  ?     Why, — the  Pearl  sailed  to-day  at  noon." 

A  look,  as  of  ten  years  suddenly  added,  fell  over  the  good 
Doctor's  face.  Its  lines  dropped  from  their  eager  hopefulness  into 
a  strange,  weary,  dreary  relinquishment.  He  set  down  his  port- 
manteau, which  he  had  brought  straight  into  the  room  with  him, 
and  turned  round  to  look  for  a  chair. 


H2  The  Gayworthys. 

"  I  didn't  think  she  would  be  sure  to  get  off. — I'm  very  tired," 
said  he,  slowly,  first  finding  out  his  fatigue  now,  and  speaking  as 
with  the  voice  of  another  man. 

They  gave  him  his  tea  and  answered  his  few  questions,  all  about 
the  Pearl,  and  the  boy,  and  when  and  where  from  they  might  first 
hope  to  hear  of  him,  and  pretty  soon  afterward  he  went  up  to  bed. 
Into  the  same  room  where  Gershom  had  slept  last  night ;  swept, 
and  aired,  and  made  up  with  fresh  linen,  since  then  ;  as  rooms  are, 
out  of  which  people  have  died  and  been  borne  away. 

And  there  the  good,  great-hearted  old  man  lay  ;  in  the  sleepless- 
ness of  age  in  a  strange  place, — with  all  his  strange,  sad,  disap- 
pointed thoughts  ;  and  heard  the  city  bells  clang  out  to  each  other, 
hour  after  hour,  as  Gershom  had  heard  them,  that  night  when  he 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  all  the  brave,  beautiful  things  that 
men  had  done  in  the  world  ;  and  for  the  boy-longing  to  go  forth 
also,  and  be  doing. 

Leagues  down,  already  upon  the  Atlantic,  laughing  at  the  fogs 
that  lay  gathering  behind  her  along  the  coast,  the  good  brig,  her 
sails  bravely  set,  making  the  most  of  what  favor  the  wind  had  for 
her,  was  fairly  away  upon  her  voyage,  speeding  on  towards  the 
pleasant  weather.  And  on  her  deck,  standing  his  first  watch,  look- 
ing out  under  the  stars  for  the  first  time,  with  an  awed  surprise, 
upon  the  restless  and  unmeasured  sea,  walked  the  boy  of  the  hills  ; 
his  heart  yearning  back  to  them  secretly,  with  a  great  longing  and 
love ;  a  wish  that  he  might  once  more  have  gone  there  to  say 
good-by  ;  an  apprehensive  questioning  whether  all  should  be  as  it 
was,  if  he  should  come  back  safely  and  go  home  to  them  again  by 
and  by. 

So  these  two  were  separated.  Separated  also  by  something 
more  than  the  leagues  of  salt  water  that  lay  between  them  to- 
night. 

A  thought  had  been  put  into  the  mind  of  each  that  lessened 
perhaps  no  love,  but  that  taught  each  to  feel  for  the  first  time  that 
he  must  learn  to  do  without  the  other.  The  boy  would  be  hence- 
forth independent,  even  of  ready  kindness,  from  the  friend  who 
was  no  "  blood-relation  "  ;  upon  whom  he  could  have  no  legitimate 
claim.  The  old  man  saw  that  he  could  no  longer  hold  to  himself 
the  young  life  that  sprang  restlessly  forth  to  its  own  place  among 
the  activities  of  the  world,  and  would  not  fall  obediently  into  a 
prepared  round. 

"  He  would  go ;  there  was  nothing  else  for  it,"  Jane  had  said. 
"  I  don't  think  anything  whatever  could  have  held  him  back." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  gone  without  a  pang,  or  a  thought 
of  those  behind. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  it's  the  way  of  the  young  ; "  said  the  gentle  Doctor, 
and  submitted. 

Jane  Gair  slept  very  well  to-night ;  after  she  had  got  over  her 
little  excitement  of  surprise  at  her  father's  coming.  Why  not  ? 


A  Search;  and  Odyllic  Force.          113 

She  had  done  nothing.  These  two  hearts — these  two  lives — had 
drifted  away  from  each  other;  she  had  only  stood  by,  and  looked 
on  at  what  had  happened. 

I  assisted  once  at  a  "  table-tipping  "  ;  we  were  all  novices,  to  be 
sure  ;  there  was  no  "  developed  medium  "  among  us  ;  we  wanted 
the  table  to  move,  and  move  it  did,  at  last,  apparently  by  no  physi- 
cal agency  ;  we  rested  the  tips  of  our  fingers  upon  it,  and  waited  ; 
and  so,  by  degrees,  it  traveled  across  the  room,  we  following  ;  but 
somebody  among  us,  by  and  by,  when  we  came  to  talk  the  wonder 
over,  was  constrained  candidly  to  confess,  that  "  she  might  have 
pushed, — a  little."  I  think  human  watching  and  waiting  for  the 
unfolding  of  circumstance  to  its  wish,  is  often  of  this  sort,  pre- 
cisely ;  and  that  a  great  deal  of  will  works  itself  out  at  the  finger- 
tips,— it  may  be  with  the  best  of  us.  It  is,  perhaps,  hard  to  say  at 
what  point  strong  desire  becomes  responsible. 

"  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence ;  for  out  of  it  are  the  issues 
of  life." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   SEARCH  ;    AND   ODYLLIC    FORCE. 

DR.  GAYWORTHY  had  nothing  to  stay  for  in  Selport.  He  had 
no  curiosity  to  "  look  about  the  city,"  as  his  daughter  and  her  hus- 
band would  have  persuaded  him  to  do.  He  had  not  seen  it  as  I 
said  for  ten  years  past ;  and  it  had  grown,  as  New  England  cities 
were  growing,  in  those  comparatively  early  days  of  railroads  ;  and 
there  was  doubtless  much  to  see ;  but  in  all  its  crowded  area 
there  was  nothing  left  that  the  Doctor  cared  for,  now,  outside  his 
daughter's  dwelling.  And  his  country  patients  would  be  waiting 
for  him  at  home.  So  at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  in  a  driz- 
zling, soaking,  sulky  rain,  he  bestowed  himself  and  his  portmanteau 
again  in  the  northward  train,  and  was  steamed  away  ;  touching 
and  pausing,  now  and  then,  on  outskirts  of  the  towns  that,  twenty 
years  ago,  were  quiet  villages,  through  which  the  old  road  lay, 
along  whose  windings  he  had  used  to  drive  when  he  made  his 
infrequent  journeys  southward. 

He  gave  his  ticket  silently  to-day  when  the  conductor  came  his 
round.  I  doubt  if  the  official  knew  him  for  the  same  man  who 
had  asked  him  yesterday  about  the  way  of  the  wind,  with  the  eager 
look  of  a  boy  questioning  his  elders  of  the  probabilities  of  weather, 
upon  which  some  rare  hope  or  pleasure  hangs  contingent.  He  felt 
dull  to-day. — the  good  old  Doctor, — languid  in  body  and  dispirited 
in  soul.  The  miles  were  long  to  him.  He  was  not  hungry  when 
he  came  to  Baxter':;  Mills.  He  took  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  morsel  of 
some  food  that  lay  nearest,  and  sat  waiting  in  his  place  in  the 


U4  The  Gayworthys. 

coach,  when    the  other    passengers,  after  their  more  prolonged 
refreshment,  came  clambering  in. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  the  slow,  ponderous  vehicle  went  tilting 
and  lumbering  and  creaking  on,  up  into  the  hill-country  ;  and  the 
persistent  spring  rain  came  down  ;  and  everything  dripped  out- 
side and  steamed  within,  and  smelt  of  wet  leather  and  damp  over- 
coats :  and  at  seven  o'clock  a  chance  wagon,  hired  at  the  Bridge, 
set  down  at  the  Gayworthy  Farmhouse  a  pale,  chilled,  exhausted 
old  gentleman,  with  nothing  to  tell  his  surprised  "women  folks" 
but  that  they  might  get  him  some  hot  tea  and  put  him  to  bed ;  for 
that  he'd  had  the  life  pretty  well  jolted  and  drenched  out  of  him  ; 
and  the  boy  was  gone  after  all." 

Two  days  after  they  sent  to  Winthorpe  for  a  brother  physician  ; 
and  a  letter  went  down  again  to  Selport,  on  Monday,  from  Joanna 
to  Jane :  "  Father  had  taken  a  violent  cold,  and  was  threatened 
with  a  congestion  of  the  lungs." 

Dutiful  Jane  packed  a  trunk,  took  Say  with  her,  and  came  up  to 
Hilbury  by  the  Tuesday's  stage. 

I  have  no  desire  to  lead  you  through  a  whole  chapter  of  sus- 
pense, for  the  mere  sake  of  it.  Dr.  Gayworthy,  though  very  ill, 
did  not  die.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  Mrs.  Gair  and  Say  went  back 
to  Selport,  leaving  him,  as  the  country  saying  is,  "  on  the  mending 
hand."  Mrs.  Gair  felt  no  wish  to  prolong  her  stay  :  it  was  too 
early  for  her  regular  yearly  visit,  and  there  was  all  her  own  and 
Say's  summer  sewing  to  be  done  ;  besides,  apart  from  the  anxiety 
and  dulness  of  a  sick-house,  it  had  not  been  altogether  an  agree- 
able sojourn  for  her,  this  time,  at  home.  Prue  had  asked  her, 
plainly  and  straightforwardly,  if  Gershom  had  gone  before  her 
letter  came,  and  whether  she  had  told  him  of  its  contents.  Jane 
Gair  never  told  a  lie.  She  had  learned  all  about  Ananias  and 
Sapphira ;  and  the  fire  and  brimstone  ;  and  George  Washington 
and  his  hatchet  ;  and  "  Has  my  darling  told  a  lie  ?  "  and  all  the 
rest  that  well-taught  children  knew  in  her  day,  long  before  she  was 
as  old  as  Say.  She  had  read  Mrs.  Opie  afterwards,  in  whose 
stories  every  variety  of  liars  got  surely  caught  and  appropriately 
punished  ;  and  though  she  could  live  as  false  a  life,  in  her  small, 
protected  way,  as  ever  a  woman  did  live, — though  there  was  not  a 
day  of  it  all,  perhaps,  when  she  did  not  painstakingly  put  forth 
some  other  motive  than  the  real  one  for  her  doing, — she  shrank, 
with  an  in-drilled  instinct  of  safety  and  decency,  from  deliberate, 
palpable  falsification  in  word. 

"  Why,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  if  you  yourself  had  known 
just  how  it  was,  you  would  not  have  written  so.  His  shipping 
papers  were  signed  ;  and  the  whole  thing  was  settled  :  and  the 
Pearl  was  to  sail  the  next  morning.  I  knew  you  did  not  mean 
for  him  to  give  up  the  voyage  ;  and  it  was  no  use  making  him 
unhappy." 

44 1  meant  exactly  what  I  said,  I  always  do,"  said  Prue  shortly ; 


A  Search;  and  Odyllic  Force.          115 

and  there  she  dropped  the  subject :  and  while  Jane  remained,  she 
spoke  no  further  word  to  her  of  Gershom.  The  mother  knew  she 
had  been  tricked  of  her  boy.  She  knew  that  Jane  knew  she  never 
intended  to  consent  to  such  a  departure  ;  that  it  was  with  a  sud- 
den thought  of  its  possibility,  that  she  had  finished  her  letter  late 
that  Monday  afternoon,  and  walked  over  to  Jaazaniah  Hoogs's 
with  it,  that  he  might  post  it  for  her  in  Winthorpe  the  next  morn- 
ing before  the  mail  went  down.  This  knowledge  lay  between 
them,  and  it  was  enough,  Mrs.  Gair  felt  far  from  comfortable, 
even  when  that  immediate  danger  to  the  Doctor  was  over,  and  she 
could  say  to  herself,  that  "  no  great  harm  had  come  of  it,  after  all." 
Come  of  what  ?  What  had  her  conscience  been  afraid  of,  after 
all? 

The  Doctor  got  well.  That  is,  he  did  not  die.  But  it  was  the 
first  break  in  his  fine  old  constitution.  After  this,  "  he  must  be 
careful ;  "  a  new  text  for  the  hearty,  self-forgetful  farmer-physician. 
A  lung-attack,  at  any  time  of  life — certainly  when  the  threescore 
years  and  ten  are  passed — can  hardly  leave  a  man  exactly  where 
it  found  him.  And  as  Prue  had  said,  he  had  "  been  a  little  slim, 
before."  He  did  not  stouten  much  as  summer  came  on.  The 
haying  was  hard  for  him ;  he  missed  Gershom  in  that,  and  in 
everything  ;  he  came  home  from  his  round  of  visits,  in  the  sultry 
weather,  languid,  and  exhausted,  and  silent ;  and  when  Jane  came 
up  again  in  August — making  her  visit  at  a  later  season  than  usual, 
because  of  having  been  there  in  the  spring,  and  also  that  Say 
might  be  in  Hilbury  in  huckleberry  time, — she  saw  that  her  father 
had  changed  ;  had  aged  ;  that  he  began  to  look  a  little  broken. 
But  it  was  now  three  months  since  the  Pearl  had  sailed,  and  he 
made  that  unlucky  journey,  and  fell  ill  after  it.  She  did  not  choose 
to  connect  this  with  the  other ;  or  to  see  that  circumstances  had 
moved  on  to  this  result,  through  any  remote  "  pushing  "  of  her 
own.  She  "couldn't  help  feeling  anxious  about  father,"  she  said 
to  her  sisters.  But  she  had,  at  the  same  time,  another  little  secret 
anxiety,  which  she  said  nothing  about.  It  occurred  to  her  now 
and  then  to  wonder  if  certain  matters  remained  just  as  they  had 
been  on  that  night  in  June,  more  than  three  years  ago. 

It  happened  strangely  that  she  was  put  one  day  in  the  direct 
way  of  finding  out. 

Joanna  and  Rebecca  had  gone  from  home,  to  a  sewing  society, 
taking  Say  with  them.  Prue  had  withdrawn  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  was  safe,  according  to  precedent,  for  an  hour  to  come. 
The  Doctor  had  been  summoned,  just  before  dinner,  to  a  patient 
four  miles  off,  and  had  taken  a  hasty  meal  and  departed.  Mrs. 
Gair  having  no  new  dress  to  put  on  to-day  that  the  Hilbury  ladies 
had  not  seen,  found  herself  unequal  to  the  fatigue  of  a  toilet  and  a 
half-mile  walk.  So  she  sat  with  a  book, — very  light  summer  read- 
ing,—just  inside  the  open  front  door,  enjoying  the  cool  breeze  that 
swept  up  under  the  maples. 


u6  The  Gayworthys. 

A  barefooted  boy,  on  a  bareback  horse,  rode  suddenly  over  the 
turf  slope  before  the  white  gate,  and  with  a  touch  of  his  dusty  toes 
to  the  top  rail,  made  a  single  spring  from  the  beast's  back  to  the 
grass  within  the  fence,  and  walked  quickly  up  toward  the  door- 
stone. 

"  The  Doctor  sent  this,  and  this,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Gair  ;  "  and 
wants  what  he's  written  for." 

"  The  leathern  case  at  the  right  hand,  in  the  middle  drawer  of 
my  study  table."  This  was  one  "  this  "  ;  the  other  was  a  bunch 
of  keys. 

Mrs.  Gair  rose  quietly,  and  entering  her  father's  little  room, 
procured  the  case,  and  came  back  with  it  to  the  messenger.  The 
keys  she  put  in  her  pocket.  "  That  is  all,"  she  said.  "  You  may 

g°-" 

The  boy  departed  ;  over  the  fence,  and  upon  the  uncaparisoned 
steed,  as  he  had  come ;  sticking  his  heels  into  the  creature's  rough 
sides,  and  larruping  its  neck  with  the  bridle-end,  till  it  broke  into  a 
wild  canter. 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  still  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  gone.  She  had 
first  dropped  the  keys  into  her  pocket,  with  only  the  thought  of 
holding  them  safe ;  joined,  perhaps,  with  an  indefinite  feeling  that 
leads  people  of  a  certain  temperament  to  cling  instinctively  to 
possession ;  even  of  what  can  be  only  temporarily  and  uselessly 
in  their  keeping.  But,  presently,  something  darted  across  her 
mind. 

Among  these,  was  the  key  to  the  panel-cupboard. 

Prue  was  up-stairs,  asleep.  She  was  alone,  in  all  this  part  of 
the  house.  She  could  never  have  a  better — perhaps  another — 
chance. 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  reading  on  down  the  page,  comprehending  never 
a  word.  Thinking,  while  the  type  lay  in  meaningless  lines  before 
her  eyes,  whether  she  should  do  this  thing  or  not.  When  she 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  leaf,  she  laid  down  the  book.  All  still 
and  solitary,  through  the  house,  and  away  out  down  the  fields. 
Nothing  to  interrupt.  Why  should  she  not  look  into  the  old  cup- 
board once  more,  and  among  its  relics  of  time  past  ?  She  be- 
thought herself  that  the  odd  volume  of  Cecilia,  which  she  could 
not  find  about  the  house,  might  have  got  laid  away  there.  There 
were  old  books,  or  used  to  be,  upon  its  upper  shelf.  Mrs.  Gair's 
was  a  mind  that  could  not  be  single-motived,  even  to  itself.  For 
such,  the  devil  is  always  ready  with  his  double  reasons. 

The  panel  door  slid  back  with  its  old  rumble ;  the  earthquake 
that  Say  had  heard  before  ;  softened  by  the  care  with  which  Jane 
handled  it,  but  still  sufficiently  audible,  or  sensible,  perhaps  in  the 
silent,  echoing  house,  and  along  the  old  timbers  attuned  to  every 
long-accustomed  thrill.  Jane  must  be  quick.  Prue  might  notice, 
and  come  down.  At  this  moment,  the  odd  volume  of  Cecilia  was 
not  thought  of.  The  faded  letter-case  lay  there ;  back,  upon  the 


A  Search;  and  Odyllic  Force.          117 

second  shelf,  with  a  worn  leather  wallet,  and  bundles  of  yellow, 
dusty  papers,  ancient,  and  mostly  useless.  Jane  held  it  in  her 
hand,  and  listened.  No  sound.  She  untied  the  green  ribbon,  and 
opened  the  case.  There  were  two  pockets.  The  upper  and  princi- 
pal one,  ample  with  inlet  and  once  curiously-folded  gores,  stretched 
and  bulged,  now,  with  long  use,  still  holding  abundant  contents. 
The  other,  a  simple  doubling,  laid  flat  within  the  cover ;  protruding 
from  which  she  saw  the  edges  of  a  paper  somewhat  fresher  than 
the  rest.  Not  what  she  sought  for.  She  remembered  that  well. 
It  had  been  only  a  half  sheet,  twice  folded.  This  presented 
multiplied  thicknesses.  She  drew  it  out  to  look  behind.  This  was 
\vhat  her  father  had  held  in  his  hand,  that  night,  and  replaced 
with  the  one  newly  written.  She  turned  it  over.  It  was  super- 
scribed and  dated.  Ten  years  back.  "  My  last  Will  and  Testa- 
ment." 

There  was  no  time  to  unfold  it.  She  heard  a  slight  movement, 
somewhere,  above.  Was  this  the  last  ?  Ten  years  ago,  was  be- 
fore Prue  and  her  great  boy  had  come  home  here.  She  put  her 
fingers  in  the  narrow  pocket  where  it  had  been.  Nothing  there  ; 
where  she  had  surely  seen  her  father  slip  the  second  writing,  be- 
hind the  other.  Something  crackled  a  little,  under  her  touch, 
though,  as  she  felt  along.  As  a  new,  stiff  lining  might  have  done  ; 
only  this  was  an  old  thing,  that  had  done  crackling,  long  ago.  In 
the  back,  just  above  this  lesser  pocket,  was  a  slit,  worn  in  the 
brocade  that  had  faced  it  once  so  richly.  Something  had  got  in, 
or  been  hidden,  here.  She  put  the  tips  of  her  ringers  under, 
carefully. 

Suddenly  she  cared  not  to  investigate  further.  She  chose  to  tell 
herself  that  she  knew  nothing.  And  that  it  was  best  she  should 
know  nothing.  And  yet  she  did  know,  just  as  well  as  you  and  I 
do,  what  it  must  be  that  lay  there,  and  how,  with  the  dim  candle- 
light, and  her  father's  old  eyes,  it  must  have  happened.  But  she 
would  not  look.  Was  it  odyllic  force,  or  a  voluntary  pressure  of 
the  finger  tip  that  "  pushed  a  little "  upon  what  lay  within,  and 
crowded  it  down  yet  further,  beyond  discovery  ?  Prue's  step  was 
distinct,  up-stairs,  now.  The  folded  paper  was  put  back, — the 
pocket  heedfully  smoothed  down,  pressed  close, — the  ribbon  retied  ; 
and  when  Prue  came  in,  a  minute  after,  all  in  the  lower  portion  of 
the  cupboard  looked  undisturbed,  and  Jane  was  standing  on  the 
hi^h  round  of  the  heavy  old  mahogany  chair  by  which  she  had 
climbed,  and  was  industriously  rummaging  among  the  shiny- 
covered  leather-bound  books,  and  musty  papers  on  the  topmost 
shelf.  She  heard  Prue  coming,  well  enough  ;  but  she  never  turned. 
She  was  in  no  hurry.  Why  should  she  startle,  or  be  afraid  ?  She 
would  just  as  soon  Prue  saw  her  there,  as  not.  And  here,  good 
fortune  that  it  was,  quite  justifying  her  procedure, — under  her 
hand  lay  the  very  thing  she  had  come  to  look  for  !  The  second 
volume  of  Cecilia,  that  had  been  gone  from  the  up-stairs  bookcase 


n8  The  Gayworthys. 

so  long.  Prue  entered  just  in  time  to  hear  her  exclaim  with 
delight. 

"  How  came  you  there  Jane  ?  And  where  did  you  get  father  s 
keys  ?  " 

"  He  sent  them  home  just  now,  for  something  that  he  needed 
from  the  table-drawer.  And  it  came  into  my  head  to  look  here 
for  this  volume  that  I  wanted  so.  I'm  so  pleased !  I  haven't  read 
Cecilia  since  I  was  fifteen." 

It  was  said  with  all  the  simplicity  of  fifteen.  But  when  Jane 
was  so  very  simple,  good  Prue,  with  all  her  own  honesty,  that  had 
used  to  make  her  blind,  had  come  of  late  to  feel,  vaguely,  that 
there  might  be  something  unspoken.  She  reproached  herself  for 
this,  and  thought  of  the  first  verse  of  the  seventh  chapter  of  Mat- 
thew ;  yet  the  sensation  would  come. 

"  I  don't  think  he  likes  those  places  meddled  with.  I  never  go 
there." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  you're  scrupulous.  But  with  me,  it's  rather 
different," 

Jane  never  failed  to  imply  her  rights,  when  occasion  offered,  as 
born  daughter  of  the  house. 

Prue  did  not  reply.  They  heard  Priscilla,  Huldah's  cousin  and 
successor,  moving  about  in  the  great  kitchen  to  which  the  door 
stood  open.  Prue  went  out. 

Jane  rolled  the  panel  to  its  place  again  ;  turned  the  key ;  dropped 
the  bunch  into  the  table-drawer ;  and  went  off  with  her  old  book  ; 
humming  a  tune. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Priscilla  came  in,  softly,  with  round  eyes, 
and  looked  wonderingly  about.  She  had  heard,  in  her  turn,  the 
earthquake ;  and  the  little  talk,  also,  between  the  stepsisters. 
These  things  impressed  themselves  upon  her  young  mind,  not 
over-occupied  as  yet  with  the  urgencies  of  life,  as  those  things  do 
to  which  future  impressions  are  to  come  and  mate  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

INTO   PORT. 

GERSHOM  VORSEwas  standing  his  last  night-watch  at  sea,  upon 
the  Pearl's  homeward  voyage.  We  left  him  upon  his  first.  He 
has  seen  since  then  what  a  sailor's  life  is.  He  has  found  out  a 
good  deal  of  those  eleven  men  who  have  been  his  shipmates ;  who 
disgusted  him  so  at  the  outset,  when  they  came  reeling  and  rollick- 
ing on  board,  on  the  fair  May  morning  when  they  sailed  out  of 
Selport.  He  has  been  half  round  the  world  with  them,  and  back 
again.  He  has  laid  out  with  them  on  the  yards,  in  stormy  nights, 
reefing  and  furling  sail.  He  has  heard  a  prayer,  or  what  was  born, 


Into  Port.  119 

a  prayer,  once,  but  has  coarsened  on  rough  lips  and  with  irreverent 
usage  to  something  a  little  better,  seemingly, — God  knows, — than 
an  ordinary  oath,  uttered  in  one  breath,  when  they  "  tumbled  up," 
at  the  midnight  call,  to  face  flood  and  fury ;  and  downright  curs- 
ing in  the  next,  as  they  struggled  at  their  task  aloft,  clinging  for 
dear  life  to  the  swaying  foot-rope,  "  fisting  "  the  wet  and  bellying 
canvas.  He  has  sat  on  the  sunny  forecastle  deck  in  pleasant 
weather  learning  to  make  duck  trousers  and  listening  to  long 
yarns.  He  has  looked,  so,  into  strange  lives.  They  had  had  "  all 
sorts,"  as  there  are  apt  to  be  in  a  crew  of  a  dozen  men.  There 
was  the  Italian,  Joe,  who  always  crossed  himself  before  he  went 
aloft  in  a  gale,  and  swore  hardest  when  he  got  there  :  who  used  to 
say  in  his  broken  English,  wagging  his  head  at  his  jolly  companions, 
• — jolly,  so  often,  at  his  expense — 

"  Ah  !  you  laugh  now !  Vera  well !  You  laugh  at  me  talk  bad 
English,  an'  pray  to  Virgin  Mary,  an'  San  Peter.  Vat  you  do 
when  you  go  up  dere,  aloft  one  day,  by  'm  by  ?  San  Peter,  he'll 
sit  at  de  gate,  wid  de  keys  in  he  hand.  He  look  over,  an'  see  you 
comin',  and  he  no  let  you  in.  He  say,  '  Vast,  dere !  Go  below  ! 
Vat  you  do  here,  you  'a-retic  ?  '  Den  by  'm  by,  you  see  Joe  come 
along.  An'  San  Peter,  he  look  over  de  gate,  an'  he  say  :  *  Ah,  dat 
you,  Joe?  Glad  to  see  you.  How  you  do,  Joe?  Valk  in,  ship- 
mate !  Vat  you  take  to  drink  ? '  " 

There  was  Jerry,  also,  from  the  Vineyard.  He  had  another 
sort  of  religion,  picked  up  at  a  camp-meeting ;  let  drop,  his  com- 
rades used  to  say,  by  some  better  fellow.  Sneaking  Jerry,  they 
called  him.  He  sneaked,  and  shirked,  and  sniveled  ;  and  the 
old  salts  despised  him,  and  "  damned  his  eyes,"  as  they  did  "  old 
horse." 

This  was  all  the  religion  they  had — to  speak  of — in  the  forecastle 
of  the  Pearl.  What  had  they,  then  ?  Well,  there  was  sailor's 
fortitude ;  sailor's  courage ;  sailor's  patience ;  a  rough  sort  of 
magnanimity ;  a  spirit  of  share  and  share  alike ;  one  scorning  to 
be  better  off  than  another,  even  in  the  matter  of  lobscouse  and  salt 
junk ;  there  was  coarse  wit ;  shrewd  invention  ;  there  was  the 
strange  bond  of  fellowship  between  men  who,  making  a  little  world 
with  each  other  now,  might  in  a  few  months  scatter  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  never  beholding  each  other's  faces  again ;  or  who 
might,  with  a  moment's  warning,  go  down  together  to  a  common 
death. 

Here  among  these,  for  eight  months,  Gershom  had  lived.  They 
had  had  a  voyage  of  ordinary  length  and  ordinary  incident.  There 
had  been  nothing  high-heroic ;  only  the  heroism  of  every  day 
endurance  and  exposure ;  and  the  glamour  was  a  little  gone.  The 
second  mate  was  a  vulgar  fellow ;  the  chief  officer  a  martinet ;  the 
Captain  was  Captain  Burley  still ;  a  noble  man  upon  the  quarter- 
deck ;  but  between  the  quarter-deck  and  the  forecastle  there  was 
an  infinite  and  impassable  distance.  Captain  Burley  and  Gershom 


I2O  The  Gayworthys. 

Vorse  would  be  taking  tea  together  soon  perhaps  at  Uncle  Reuben's 
table,  talking  over  sea  life,  telling  and  listening  again  to  sea  stories; 
but  for  eight  months  one  had  been  served  his  solitary  meals  in 
state  by  the  steward  in  the  cabin,  and  the  other  had  fetched  his 
kid  from  the  galley ;  and  words  had  been  rare  between  them, 
beyond  what  the  vessel's  service  required. 

Gershom  had  seen  the  great  sea,  and  the  far,  beautiful  islands ; 
he  had  been  among  the  palms  and  orange  groves  ;  he  had  beheld 
unrolled  a  corner  of  the  grand  glowing  panorama  of  the  earth  ; 
he  longed  still  for  more ;  yet  it  had  not  all  been  a  vision  of  grand- 
eur and  beauty, — a  sublimity  of  scene  and  act ;  he  was  eager  now 
for  his  home  again  ;  for  a  breath  of  the  New  England  hills  ;  eager, 
as  if  he  had  never  fancied  himself  weary  of  them  ;  never  felt  that 
they  hemmed  him  round  and  held  him  in. 

It  was  a  bright  mild  January  night ;  the  stars  were  out  clear, 
and  the  wind  fair ;  sails  set,  I  shall  not  tell  you  what,  nor  how, 
for  I  have  small  knowledge  of  technical  seamanship, — but  all  safe, 
and  as  it  should  be ;  the  man  at  the  wheel  steering  his  steady 
course  n&rth-northwest,  and  the  watch  smoking  and  singing  and 
skylarking  on  the  forecastle,  keeping  themselves  warm  with  antics 
and  jokes.  Gershom  walked  the  deck,  up  and  down  apart,  in  the 
waist.  He  had  little  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  crew,  to- 
night, save  the  common  joy  of  nearing  port.  He  knew  nothing  of 
their  haunts,  nothing  of  their  shore  life  here  in  the  city,  though 
he  could  guess  somewhat  of  it  from  their  yarns  and  chaff.  So  soon 
as  he  should  step  from  the  deck  of  the  Pearl,  he  would  be  the  "  boy 
of  the  hills  "  once  more,  as  thoroughly  as  if  he  had  never  seen  salt 
water.  He  was  thinking  of  the  Hilbury  stage,  and  hoping  the 
brig  might  get  in  before  to-morrow  night,  that  the  next  day  might 
find  him  on  his  journey  to  the  farm. 

Ned  Blackmere — English  Ned — stood  apart,  also,  leaning  on 
the  rail,  looking  gloomily  over  upon  the  water.  English  Ned  was 
never  jolly  coming  into  port.  But  then,  when  was  he  jolly  ? 
There  was  a  fierce  kind  of  spirit  that  waked  up  in  him,  when  they 
sailed  away  out  of  sight  of  land,  as  if  he  had  escaped  something  ; 
and  he  flung  himself  into  his  seaman's  duty,  as  if  his  life  lay  there ; 
but  he  was  never  cheery  and  light-hearted.  His  gloom  and  re- 
serve, strange  always  for  a  sailor,  took  on  a  heavier  cloud,  like  the 
fog  of  the  soundings,  on  approaching  the  homeward  end  of  a  voy- , 
age.  He  had  sailed  with  the  Pearl  for  six  years  past.  They 
called  him  Old  Barnacle,  for  sticking  to  her  so.  He  loved  the  brig, 
I  think,  though  he  believed  that  he  loved  nothing.  Gershom  had 
never  heard  this  man  spin  a  yarn  since  they  came  on  board  to- 
gether. Nobody  knew  much  about  him.  He  was  a  fearless,  skil- 
ful seaman ;  a  sure  hand  at  the  helm,  or  at  an  earing,  in  bad 
weather ;  but  a  moody  messmate,  caring  for  nothing  but  his  pipe, 
from  which  he  was  nearly  inseparable. 

Gershom  came  close  up  to  him,  in  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  each 


Into  Port.  121 

time  he  turned  forward.  There  was  a  spring  in  the  boy's  step, 
and  a  flinging  up  of  the  head,  that  had  gone  out  of  the  man's 
bearing  forever. 

"  Ye're  walking  it  off  well  to-night,  youngster,"  said  old  Bar- 
nacle, turning  suddenly,  and  clenching  his  pipe  with  his  teeth. 
"  Seems  to  help  the  brig  along,  don't  it  ? 

"  Well,  I'm  restless,"  replied  Gershom,  pausing  at  the  end  of 
his  beat.  "  She's  going  a  good  streak,  ain't  she  ?  We'll  be  in 
by  to-morrow  night,  they  say." 

"  You've  something  to  be  glad  of,  then  ?  What  have  you  got 
to  go  to  when  ye're  in  ?  " 

He  would  not  have  asked  this  of  those  older  men,  who  talked 
of  sweethearts  and  wives,  or  laid  their  plans  for  a  sailor's  holiday 
time,  with  full  pockets  and  a  gay  city  to  empty  them  in, — he  knew, 
or  thought  he  knew,  what  all  that  was  worth ;  and  he  turned  away 
bitterly  from  the  merry  forecastle  group  to  the  black  water  swash- 
ing by  the  sides,  and  to  his  solitary  pipe :  but  he  asked  it  of  this 
boy,  who  had  turned  away  also, — asked  it  with  something  between 
wonder  and  a  sneer. 

"  I've  got  home ! "  cried  the  young  sailor,  with  a  warm  out- 
burst. He  was  so  glad  to  have  it  to  say  out.  He  had  been  want- 
ing to  sing  it,  to  shout  it  ;  but  he  could  not  say  it  to  those  men. 
"  I've  got  my  mother  and  my  grandfather,  up  in  the  country, 
among  the  hills.  And,  before  that,  I've  got  friends  in  Selport ; 
Uncle  Reuben, — that  is,  Mr.  Gair,  you  know, — and  my  little  cousin 
Say.  Where  are  you  going  to,  Ned  ?  " 

He  had  been  beguiled,  suddenly,  from  the  off-hand  roughness 
learned  at  sea,  that  disguises  everything  with  an  indifference  or 
turns  it  off  with  a  joke,  to  the  simple  sentiment  of  a  child.  The 
child-side  of  his  nature  was  uppermost  just  now ;  and,  true  to  its 
impulse,  he  told  all  this  to  old  Barnacle,  as  a  six  years'  urchin 
tells  all  he  has  to  tell  upon  the  slightest  questioning :  and  wound 
up  by  asking, — what  nobody  else  on  board  would  have  dared  to 
ask  Ned  Blackmere, — "  Where  are  you  going  to,  Ned  ?  " 

"  To  hell !  If  you  must  know."  It  was  as  true  a  speech  out  of 
the  man's  secret  heart  as  the  boy's  confidence  had  been.  They 
had  called  each  other  out  alike. 

"  Stop  !  you  needn't  go.  Since  we've  begun,  we  may  as  well 
talk  on  a  bit." 

He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  saying  this,  and  stood  with 
his  arms  resting  on  the  bulwark,  and  his  head  bent,  the  pipe  held 
carelessly  in  his  fingers,  and  his  hand  hanging  idly  down. 

"  You've  got  a  home,  you  say  :  I  suppose  you  think  so.  You'll 
find  out  sometime  that  there  isn't  any  such  thing.  There's  places 
where  people  stay  together  awhile ;  but  it's  for  what  they  can  get 
of  each  other,  and  because  they  can't  help  themselves.  All  at 
once  something  turns  up,  and  sets  'em  adrift,  and  what  becomes  of 
your  home  then  ?  I've  seen  it :  I've  seen  'em  go  to  pieces  like  a 


122  The  Gayworthys. 

ship  on  a  rock, — no  two  timbers  held  together.  You've  got  a 
mother  ?  Well,  that's  something ;  as  long  as  it  lasts  ;  but  the 
real  ones  mostly  die.  I  can  just  remember  somebody  that  used  to 
cuddle  me  up,  and  tuck  me  in  bed,  and  tell  me  prayers  to  say ; 
but  after  that  I  don't  remember  anything  but  kicks  and  cuffs,  and 
drink  and  misery.  Then  my  father  died  ;  and  my  father's  brother 
cheated  us  out  of  what  living  there  was  left ;  and  my  own  brother 
cheated  me  out  of  what  was  more  than  living  to  me,  or  I  was 
fool  enough  to  think  so  ;  and  my  sister  made  a  disgrace  of  her- 
self, and  broke  the  heart  of  an  honest  fellow  as  was  my  friend ; 
and  I  went  knocking  about  the  world,  and  it's  all  made  up  of 
just  the  same  stuff.  I've  been  all  over  it ;  and  God  ain't  anywhere 
in  it.  If  he  was,  he  wouldn't  let  things  be  as  I  have  seen  'em. 
I  set  out  once  to  plant  a  home  of  my  own,  and  see  if  'twould 
grow ;  but  I  married  a  she-devil,  and  I  tell  you  we  made  hell ! 
My  child  never  had  a  mother :  it's  dead ;  and  if  God  was  any- 
where round,  I'd  thank  him  for  it.  She  overlaid  it  in  the  night ; 
she  said  she  did.  I  knew  she  got  tired  of  it ;  and  it  made  her 
mad  wi'  crying, — that  and  the  gin.  She  didn't  get  stupid  wi'  't, 
only  devilish  ;  and  the  child  lay  smothered  in  the  bed  one  morn- 
ing. That's  where  my  home  went  to  ;  but  I  go  back  there  yet, 
and  halve  my  wages  with  her,  when  the  brig's  in:  and  I'm  pre- 
cious jolly  when  we  come  in  sight  o'  land,  don't  you  see?"  And 
his  white  teeth  glistened  through  the  darkness  as  he  set  them  tight, 
and  his  lips  drew  up  from  them  in  a  horrible  scorn.  He  barely 
relaxed  their  clench,  and  thrust  his  pipe  between  them  again,  and 
so  held  it  fast. 

"  If  I'd  gone  my  own  way  from  the  beginning,  and  never  be- 
lieved in  nobody,  I'd  ha'  done."  These  words  forced  themselves, 
as  it  were,  from  locked  jaws.  "It's  all  come  o'  trusting  and  ex- 
pecting; and  the  women's  the  worst.  They'll  hold  you  up  the 
most  wi'  trusting;  and  they'll  let  you  down  the  hardest, — except 
the  real  mothers,  and  they  don't  last.  If  you've  got  a  mother,  boy, 
hold  on  to  her ;  but  take  care  o'  your  bones,  and  keep  clear  o'  the 
rest ! " 

Eight  bells  were  struck  as  old  Barnacle  ended  speaking  ;  the 
larboard  watch  was  called  ;  and  Gershom  with  his  watchmates 

Eresently  went  below  :  but  this  epitomized  story  of  a  dark  life,  that 
e  had  heard,  went  with  him,  and  haunted  him.  He  could  not 
forget  Blackmere's  look.  He  could  not  forget  what  he  had  said, 
— "  I've  been  all  round  the  world  ;  and  God  ain't  anywhere  in  it." 
Should  he,  now  that  he  had  once  come  out  from  the  safety  of  the 
hills,  ever  reach  a  desolation  like  this  ?  Was  this  what  must  surely- 
come  of  trusting  and  expecting  ?  Was  the  great  world,  outside 
the  shelter  and  the  faith  of  his  childhood,  made  up,  even  mostly. 
of  stuff  like  this  ? 

An  unwholesome  or  unhappy  life  may  touch  our  own,  and  pass 
us  by  harmless,  as  disease  may  do  our  bodies,  except  for  a  predis- 


Into  Port.  123 

position  which  it  mysteriously  finds,  and  seizes  upon.  We  gather 
to  ourselves  nothing  that  we  have  not  already  some  faint  unnoticed 
symptom  of.  A  sudden  distrust,  that  had  passed  over  him  long 
ago, — that  since,  he  had  hardly  remembered,  or  dwelt  upon, — a 
doubt  of  one  who  should  have  been  his  friend, — recalled  itself  to 
Gershom  in  a  vague  way  now ;  a  feeling  that  he  had  also  once 
known  gave  a  holding  point  to  this  terrible  history  of  a  disap- 
pointed, utterly  distrustful  human  soul,  and  grafted  it,  strange  and 
fearful  as  it  was,  to  the  boy's  own  life.  His  own  little  experience 
of  an  ill  in  human  nature  added  to  itself  this  blacker  knowledge  ; 
and  the  one  verified  the  other.  There  was  a  glimmer  whereby  he 
could  dimly  comprehend  this  thing  whereof  he  should  have  had  no 
comprehension  yet.  It  should  have  been  a  mere  marvel  to  him  ; 
but  it  seized  strong  hold  of  him,  and  he  could  not  shake  it  off. 

It  was  a  putting  of  two  and  two  together,  with  Gershom  Vorse, 
toward  the  acquiring  of  that  bitter  science  men  call  knowledge  of 
the  world. 

The  lessons  had  begun  longer  ago  than  he  reviewed  them  now ; 
in  the  old  childish  days,  with  their  perceptions  of  the  shams  of 
life ;  when  Aunt  Jane,  with  her  fine  city  airs  and  fashions,  had 
used  to  come  to  Hilbury ;  when  she  and  her  friends  and  neighbors 
met  with  such  a  seeming  of  simple,  eager  gladness,  underneath 
which  was  yet  the  seething  of  vainglory  on  the  one  side,  and 
jealousy  on  the  other ;  when  there  were  all  sorts  of  quibbles  and 
devices  to  get  rid  of  lending  Selport  patterns,  and  painstaking 
contrivances  to  imitate  them  surreptitiously  ;  triumphant  displays 
and  wrathful  recognitions,  disguised  with  airs  of  innocent  simpli- 
city and  bland  acquiescence ;  when  people  who  Gershom  believed 
had  it  in  them  to  behave  like  pigs,  minced  little  bits,  and  said  "  No 
I  thank  you,"  to  be  thought  polite ;  all  this,  as  he  saw  or  fancied 
he  saw  it  then,  had  laid  itself  away  within  him,  an  early  disgust, 
to  color  many  an  after  estimate  of  life  and  the  things  thereof. 

Gershom  Vorse,  with  his  uncompromising  sense  of  honesty, 
drawn  with  mother's  milk  and  incorporated  with  the  strong,  un- 
yielding man-nature  that  was  in  him,  was  likely,  unless  something 
more  divine  and  gracious  should  mingle  and  attune  with  it,  to 
make  a  long  quarrel  of  it  with  the  world. 

The  world  !  Every  soul  of  us  knows  a  separate  one.  Over  into 
each  other's  worlds,  in  a  way,  we  may  look ;  and  our  own  may 
borrow  from  what  lies  about  the  borders  of  those  that  touch  upon 
it ;  but  scarcely  any  two,  however  dear,  inhabit  literally  one  domain, 
— have  one  identical  range  and  region. 

What  sort  of  world  was  little  Sarah  Gair  feeling  out  into,  with 
childish  hands  ;  glancing  into,  with  eager,  often  puzzled  eyes  ? 

It  opened  differently  to  her  than  it  did  to  Gershom  ;  things  that 
he  was  learning  were  as  unknown  to  her  as  any  concerns  of  an- 
other planet ;  things  were  forcing  themselves  upon  her,  as  real 
facts  of  life,  that  to  him  would  be  nothings.  Compared  with  better 


124  The  Gayworthys. 

and  stronger  things,  they  were  as  nothings  doubtless ;  yet  they 
made  up  a  certain  sort  of  world  for  a  certain  sort  of  people,  among 
whom  Say  was  born  and  placed.  They  were  the  shape  life  took, 
just  now  at  least,  for  her ;  she  had  a  mother  not  too  wise  ;  and 
she  was  as  yet  only  a  little  maiden  of  eleven  years  old. 

Sarah  Gair  came  home  from  dancing-school,  in  the  January 
dusk,  at  the  very  hour  when  the  Pearl  came  sailing  up  the  harbor. 
She  had  had  her  hair  tied  up  in  a  new  way,  with  rose-colored  rib- 
bons; and  this  was  the  first  day  of  wearing  a  bright  brown  silk 
frock  with  puffed  sleeves  and  lace  edgings,  that  Winny  when  she 
fastened  it  for  her,  had  declared  to  be  "  the  rale  stylish  thing, 
intirely."  Yet  somehow  she  hadn't  felt  so  fine,  after  all,  as  she 
expected.  Pauline  Topliff,  wearing  a  blue  dress,  that  just  matched 
her  eyes,  and  ribbons  in  her  hair  that  matched  the  dress,  had 
never  once  spoken  to  her ;  and  had  even  declared,  in  a  half  aside, 
to  Helen  Semple,  that  she  "  couldn't  bear  contrasts,  or  bran-new 
things ;  and  pink  and  brown  were  dreadfully  vulgar."  This 
weighed  upon  Say's  heart,  and  even  upon  her  conscience. 

She  felt  that  she  had,  somehow,  got  with  the  wrong  girls  this 
afternoon,  and  that,  if  her  mother  knew,  she  would  not  like  il. 
She  supposed  she  ought  to  have  stayed  sitting  by  Pauline  Topliffs 
elbow,  even  after  that  elbow  was  very  unceremoniously  thrust  for- 
ward, and  a  hint  given  that  the  sofa  was  crowded.  It  had  been 
very  comfortable  in  the  corner,  afterward  with  Lucy  Briggs,  who 
had  a  new  book  of  fairy  stories,  and  who  let  her  "  look  over." 
But  she  knew  that  it  had  been  all  wrong.  And  yet  the  Topliff  set 
wouldn't  have  her.  What  was  she  to  do?  She  didn't  understand 
why  it  was;  Pauline  Topliff  was  very  pretty;  and  she  danced  the 
Gavotte  beautifully;  she  and  Helen  Semple,  together;  and  Say 
would  have  thought  herself  in  heaven,  almost, — so  great  was  her 
spontaneous  admiration,  and  so  strong  her  instilled  ambition, — if 
she  could  have  once  had  Pauline  Topliff's  arm  thrown  round  her 
in  the  free  girlish  familiarity  that  Pauline  showed  to  her  especial 
friends,  and  that  Lucy  Briggs  and  other  girls,  of  a  more  accessible 
order,  were  quite  ready  to  show  to  herself.  But  ever  since  that 
afternoon  of  her  first  overture,  made  dutifully,  in  the  spirit  of  her 
mother's  injunctions,  when  she  tried  to  "get  acquainted"  by  offer- 
ing half  her  book  to  Pauline,  and  the  blue  eyes  had  opened  so  very 
wide  ;  and  such  a  surprised  voice  had  exclaimed  to  the  friend  with 
whom  the  young  lady  immediately  got  up  and  walked  off,  "  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?  For  a  strange  girl ! " — it  had  been 
all  in  vain.  Beyond  a  certain  point, — an  uncertain  one,  I  should 
rather  say ;  since  even  a  partial  condescension  depended  on  the 
caprice  and  convenience  of  the  juvenile  exclusives, — Say  had  never 
been  able  to  reach.  It  was  like  the  poor  girl  in  the  story,  who  could 
not  find  her  way  into  the  Enchanted  Island.  An  invisible  \vali 
of  adamant  opposed  her  ;  she  advanced  impetuously ;  she  was 
thrown  back  ignominiously.  Say  went  straight  at  the  wall  of 


Into  Port.  125 

adamant ;  it  was  her  nature  to  be  impetuous  ;  she  showed  plainly 
•what  she  wanted  ;  it  was  the  only  way  she  knew  how  to  try  for  it. 
So  she  seemed  odd  and  awkward,  and  rude ;  so  failure  was  made 
more  positively  certain. 

So  her  little  child-world  puzzled  and  grieved  her.  She  could 
not  understand  why  things  were  so. 

But  behind  the  child-world  was  the  great  grown-up  world. 
This  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  of. 

Selport — you  observe — had  its  aristocracy.  Of  course.  Every 
town  and  village  on  this  continent  that  was  a  wilderness  three 
hundred  years  ago,  develops  that,  in  its  growth,  by  the  inevitable 
occult  law  of  human  crystallization.  Selport.  at  this  time  of  which 
I  write,  was  a  half-grown  city.  More  punctilious  and  tenacious 
therefore,  concerning  its  little  dignities,  as  all  half-grown  creatures 
are,  than  it  would  be  probably  when  it  should  get  a  little  bigger. 
Why  on  earth  Wilkins,  who  grew  fat  on  nails  and  flatirons,  twenty 
years  ago,  should  contemn  Simpkins  who  is  doing  the  same  thing 
to-day,  as  fast  as  he  can,  is  among  the  unaccounted  for  but  pal- 
pable facts  in  social  science.  The  thing  is,  and  always  has  been. 
There  were  families  in  Selport  who  sold  all  their  nails  and  flatirons, 
their  soap  and  candles, — a  generation  or  two  ago.  All  these  knew 
each  other.  This  was  the  circle  born,  not  made.  Into  this,  one 
must  be  born.  Fresh  comers  from  the  unknown  up-country, 
making  the  beginnings  of  new  fortunes,  and  the  nuclei  of  new 
circles,  could  not  for  very  long  hope  to  wheel  into  an  orbit  con- 
centric with  these.  Simpkins  must  roll  forth,  full-orbed,  from  his 
nebulous  obscurity,  before  Wilkins  can  behold  him  with  the  naked 
eye. 

The  Gairs,  pre-eminent  in  Hilbury,  were  in  a  nebula  at  Selport. 
The  whole  object  of  their  lives — Mrs.  Jane's  more  especially — was 
to  find  their  way  out,  and  begin  to  revolve  as  planets.  It  was 
slow  work.  With  all  her  ambition,  Mrs.  Gair  thought,  at  weary 
times,  that  she  could  almost  give  it  all  up,  and  relapse,  contentedly, 
into  chaos. 

I  don't  pretend  that  my  analogy  is  complete ;  a  more  perfect 
method  obtains,  doubtless,  in  the  heavens,  and  the  inchoate  worlds 
are  kept  at  safe  distances  from  the  established  systems  ;  but  in  the 
social  firmament  it  does  sometimes  happen  that  a  little  concrete 
luminosity,  trembling  on  the  edge  of  one  of  its  nebulas,  gets  caught 
and  drawn,  once  in  a  cycle  or  so,  by  some  favoring  attraction,  to 
the  outskirts  of  a  sublime  solar  order.  In  such  a  case,  it  is,  for 
awhile,  one  of  the  most  unhappy  little  objects  in  creation.  It  is 
not  quite  sure  of  belonging  anywhere.  Some  great  Jupiter,  or 
benignant  Venus,  sweeps  along,  and  almost  catches  it  up,  trium- 
phantly, into  the  place  where  it  would  be.  But  its  own  tremendous 
forces  bear  the  planet  on,  before  the  lesser  orb  can  complete  a 
perfect  revolution,  even  as  a  satellite  ;  and  so  it  oscillates  fearfully, 
in  peril  of  plunging  between  opposing  and  disturbing  impulses, 


126  The  Gayworthys. 

down  awful  gulfs  of  wreck  and  annihilation.  I  suppose  creation 
must  go  on  ;  and  it  may  be  dastardly  to  say  so ;  but  I  think,  for 
my  part,  I  would  rather  stay  in  the  milkiest  part  of  the  Milky  Way, 
forever. 

"  I  don't  know  the  person."  These  words,  from  certain  lips  in 
Selport,  were  irrevocable  oblivion.  Human  nature  would  find  its 
way,  sometimes,  though,  for  all  that.  Good-hearted  little  Mrs. 
Semple — indisputably  of  the  "  best  set  " — was  in  continual  peril  of 
loss  of  caste,  through  mentioning  people  whom  Mrs.  Topi  ff 
"  didn't  know."  She  -would  have  neighbors  in  the  side  street  that 
turned  down  two  doors  from  her  own.  Mrs.  Topliff  lived  in  a 
broader  street  than  either,  crossing  the  head  of  the  first ;  and  her 
house,  standing  opposite  the  opening,  took  in  range  of  its  outlook 
the  whole  length  between  its  blocks.  This  typified  properly  her 
social  position  of  overlook  and  scrutiny. 

Mrs.  Semple  met  the  great  lady  one  morning,  walking  down  as 
she  went  up. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Topliff!  Were  you  coming  to  me,  I  wonder  ?  I'm 
so  sorry.  I've  just  come  from  Mrs.  Norris,  round  the  corner. 
She's  in  such  trouble,  poor  little  woman  !  Her  eldest  daughter,  a 
sweet  girl,  just  my  Helen's  age,  has  died,  after  an  illness  of  only 
four  days.  Only  think,  what  a  blow  ! — I'm  going  down  town  for 
her,  now,  to  order  the  dear  child's  burial-dress,  and  the  mourning. 
I'm  so  grieved  for  her." 

Thus  far,  Mrs.  Topliff  might  have  endured  with  only  her  chill 
look  of  well-bred,  dignified  patience,  but  when  incautious  Mrs. 
Semple,  her  whole  mother's  heart  touched,  went  on  to  narrate 
some  circumstances  of  the  brief  illness  of  this  young  creature, 
"  just  her  own  Helen's  age,"  and  the  resistless  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes  as  she  spoke,  it  became  too  much. 

"  My  dear,"  she  interposed,  with  a  freezing  emphasis,  "  I dorit 
know  Mrs.  Norris  !  " 

"  But  you're  a  mother !  "  cried  the  other,  with  a  startle  of 
honest,  womanly  indignation.  She  forgot  to  feel  guilty,  as  she 
sometimes  did,  at  her  own  lapse  from  the  restrictions  of  her 
order. 

I  wonder  if  by  any  chance  it  ever  occurred  to  this  woman,  who 
was  a  mother,  and  who  supposed  herself  a  Christian,  to  think  of  a 
possible  moment  in  the  mighty  future  when  a  Voice  more  awful 
might  say,  "  I  never  knew  you  !  Go  your  way  ! " 

I  wonder  if  the  thought  of  that  higher  Recognition,  or  that  un- 
utterably fearful  Ignoring,  might  not  sometimes  set  at  nought, 
even  to  such  as  they,  the  petty  human  dictum,  for  whose  favoring 
utterance  setting  heart  and  soul  upon  the  aim,  women  like  Jane 
Gair  were  laboring. 

Laboring — Mrs.  Gair  was — and  building  up  her  own  world  about 
herself;  not  for  herself  only.  This  was  the  world  her  child  was 
to  feel  out  into,  wonderingly,  with  innocent  hands.  A  world  of 


Into  Port.  127 

petty,  false  ambitions  ;  of  mean  subserviencies  ;  of  self-degrading 
shames. 

A  small  consolation  came  to  Sarah  at  the  end  of  this  dancing- 
school  afternoon.  If  her  mother  had  been  at  home  to  put  her 
usual  questions — "  What  did  you  do  ?  Who  did  you  sit  by  ?  " 
Say  must  have  confessed,  "  I  sat  by  Pauline  Topliff  a  little  while, 
and  then  I  went  and  read  a  book  with  Lucy  Briggs."  But  after- 
ward she  could  have  added  the  salvo—"  And  then  Lucy  and  I 
walked  home  with  Helen  Semple."  She  was  almost  sorry  now  for 
what  she  had  been  glad  of  before :  that  her  mother  was  away,  and 
that  she  should  not  be  required  to  give  account.  It  might  be  long 
before  she  should  have  as  much  to  boast  again.  Mrs.  Topliff  had 
called  at  the  school  early,  in  her  carriage,  and  taken  Pauline  away 
with  her ;  and  then  Helen  had  picked  up  the  book  which  Lucy 
and  Say  had  left  behind  them  on  the  seat  when  they  went  to  join 
their  class,  Two  things  bring  children  at  once  to  a  common  level 
— sugar-plums  and  fairy  tales.  A  paper  of  bonbons  had  often 
been  a  temporary  propitiation ;  the  story-book  was  irresistible. 
Helen  condescended  to  linger  on,  even  when  the  "  bran-new " 
silk  and  ribbons  came  rustling  and  fluttering  back,  and,  after  a 
little  timid  hovering,  settled  themselves  beside  her.  Lucy  Briggs. 
in  her  dark  merino,  sat  down,  softly  and  simply,  in  the  place  she 
had  left.  She  had  been  taught  no  mortifying  ambitions,  no  false 
timidities,  If  Mrs.  Gair  could  but  have  understood  it,  there  was 
better  chance  in  the  world  for  Lucy  Briggs,  the  wholesale  grocer's 
daughter,  than  for  the  child  of  the  merchant  who  brought  home 
groceries  in  his  own  vessels  from  South  America  and  the  Indies. 
Lucy  Briggs,  in  her  plain,  unpretending  home,  had  a  true  woman 
for  a  mother.  She  was  growing  up  in  sweet,  ladylike  ways, 
unaware,  with  no  especial  thought  about  being  a  lady,  at  all.  Here 
is  where  the  two  extremes  meet ;  the  highest  breeding,  the  purest 
refinement,  the  most  undoubted  position,  would  account  for  its 
being,  if  its  unconscious  feeling  were  ever  rendered  in  words,  much 
as  Topsy  did  ;  "  Don't  know ;  'spect  I  growed."  It  is  the  half-way, 
restless,  striving,  self-sensitive  state  that  is  vulgar.  Mrs.  Gair  had 
not  mastered  this  secret  yet. 

Helen  Semple  borrowed  the  book  of  Lucy  Briggs,  and  offered, 
if  she  would  walk  home  with  her,  to  lend  her  the  "  Black  Velvet 
Bracelet  "  in  return. 

So  Say  got  into  the  front  entry  of  Judge  Semple's  house,  and 
waited  there  five  minutes. 

It  had  been  a  very  praiseworthy  thing,  she  thought,  that  had 
happened  to  her ;  and  she  wished  her  mother  were  at  home  to 
know. 

A  dear  little  dutiful,  confiding  girl  was  Sarah  Gair ;  she  trusted 
in  her  mother's  supreme  wisdom  ;  the  mother, —  (thought  of  awe  !) 
though  she  be  but  a  fool,  must  needs,  for  a  while,  represent  the  Su- 
preme Wisdom  to  her  child  ;  and  Say's  loyal  little  heart  warmed  •** 


128  The  Gayworthys. 

the  hope  of  pleasing  this  worldly  mother  of  hers,  as  few  of  our 
grown-up  hearts,  perhaps,  warm  at  the  thought  of  pleasing 
God. 

"  Now  make  haste,  Miss  Sarah,  darlint.  Yer  late,  and  it's  moon- 
cakes  there  is  for  your  tay  to-night ;  and  take  aff  your  fine  silk- 
gown,  an"  pit  an  yer  ould  one,  and  come  down  to  the  basemint, 
like  a  good  shild,"  said  Winny,  letting  her  in. 

"  No,"  answered  Say,  "  I  shan't  take  off  my  dress  at  all.  And 
you  may  bring  the  tea  up-stairs.  And  I  want  the  chandelier 
lighted." 

"  Arrah !  is  it  crazed  ye  are,  shild  ? "  cried  Winny,  aghast. 
"  Not  take  aff  yer  bran-new  silk  gown  whin  it's  yer  mother  wud 
always  have  ye  pit  back  intil  yer  ould  frock,  an"  it's  mussin  it  ahl 
ye'll  be,  an'  sorra  ha'porth  I  can  do  till  help  it !  An*  the  tay  up- 
stairs, and  the  shandler  lighted.  Well,  well,  well,  what'll  I  do 
at  all  ?  " 

"  Do  what  I  said,"  returned  Say,  with  a  dignity.  "  I  don't 
like  bran-new  things.  I  want  my  dress  to  get  mussed,  a  little. 
My  things  all  stick  out  and  crackle  so.  Nobody's  else  do.  And 
I've  been  to  Helen  Semple's,  and  there  was  nobody  in  the  parlor 
but  her  father  and  mother,  and  the  chandelier  was  lighted,  and 
they  never  said  a  word  to  her  about  taking  off  her  dress.  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  does.  Till  she  goes  to  bed,  I  mean.  It's  only 
making  believe  to  have  things  when  you  pull  'em  off  the  minute 
you  get  home.  And  when  the  chandelier  is  never  lighted.  I'm 
going  to  have  things  real.  Now  bring  up  the  tea  and  the  moon- 
cakes."  And  Say  settled  herself  down  very  comfortably  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  fire. 

"  An'  ye'll  never  mind  the  shandler,  like  a  good  child  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Say,  impatiently.  "  Don't  make  me  tell 
you  over  again  so  many  times.  There,  take  this,  and  get  right  up 
and  light  it  now, — that's  a  good  Winny,"  she  added,  coaxingly,  as 
she  discovered  the  demur  in  the  girl's  face.  "  If  you  don't,  I 
shall ! " 

"  Arrah  !  but  ye' re  a  quare  one !  I  shuppose  I  must  jist  do  it 
for  yees,  or  ye'll  be  afther  smashin'  ahl  the  glasses  !  Sorra  know  I 
know  what's  got  intil  yees  the  night." 

The  tea  and  the  round  short-cakes,  christened  "  moon-cakes  " 
years  ago  by  Say,  were  brought  up ;  and  she  sat  there  in  the  bril- 
liant light,  with  her  silk  dress  and  her  rose-colored  ribbons,  and 
made  Winny  wait  upon  her  as  scrupulously  as  if  she  had  been  a 
little  princess.  She  felt,  now,  she  was  having  things  real.  It  was 
the  truth  of  the  child's  nature  rather  than  the  foolish  pride  of  it 
that  indulged  itself  in  this  wise. 

"  I  wish  I  wasn't  all  alone  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  after  Winny  had 
taken  the  tray  down.  "  I  wish  some  visitors  would  come.  I  wish 
I  could  have  asked  Lucy  Briggs  to  come  and  stay  all  night." 

Say  had   few  companions.     Even  by  grown-up   acquaintances, 


Into  Port.  129 

the  Gairs  home  was  comparatively,  little  visited.  There  had  been 
a  snubbing  of  some  people  who  would  have  been  neighborly,  and 
a  waiting  for  others  who  seldom  or  never  condescended  to  appear. 
Mrs.  Topliff  was  President  of  one  or  two  charitable  societies,  which 
Mrs.  Gair  had  joined,  Once  or  twice,  partly  on  some  business, 
she  had  called.  Mrs.  Gair  was  always  expecting  the  great  lady  to 
"  drop  in,  socially,"  as,  with  civil  surprise,  she  had  received  invita- 
tion to  do.  Meanwhile,  Jane  put  on  "Topliff  airs"  with  Mrs. 
Briggs  and  Mrs.  Norris,  who  might  have  been  her  friends.  Their 
daughters,  also,  and  others  like  them,  who  might  have  been  inti- 
mate with  Say,  were  set  aside,  when  the  child  suggested  either  of 
them,  with, — "  Oh,  I  wouldn't  ask  her.  Why  don't  you  invite  this 
one,  or  that  one,  instead  ? "  This  or  that  one  would  not  have 
come.  Say  was  too  proud  to  acknowledge  this  in  words,  which 
she  and  her  mother  both  knew,  secretly,  very  well.  It  ended, 
therefore,  in  a  stiff,  cold,  unsocial  living ;  a  sad  solitariness  for 
little  Say. 

"  Perhaps  the  Pearl  has  got  in  to-day,  and  Gershie'll  come  !  " 

Say  felt,  secretly,  that  it  would  be  very  nice  if  Gershom  should 
come,  and  Captain  Burley  too,  perhaps,  and  find  her  in  her  best 
dress,  with  the  parlor  lighted. 

"  I'm  glad  I  kept  it  on.  Only  I  can't  go  into  the  kitchen.  I 
shall  have  to  make  Winny  come  up  and  sit  here,  and  tell  me  a 
story."  Which  Winny  was  doing,  an  hour  later,  when  the  front 
door-bell  rang,  at  last,  and  a  voice,  grown  so  deep  and  strong  that 
Say,  listening  behind,  hardly  knew  it  for  Gershom's,  asked  for  Mr. 
Gair. 

"  He's  gone  away  to  Hilberry  ;  he  and  the  mishtress  ;  but  Miss 
Sarah's  at  home,  an'  it's  she  that's  been  expictin'  yees,"  said 
Winny,  at  the  door.  Then  Say  sprang  out. 

"  Oh,  Gershom  !     I'm  so  glad  ! " 

But  she  paused  when  she  saw  the  stout,  manly  grown  figure 
that  stood  there,  in  the  rough  pilot  coat ;  and  Gershom,  after  a 
quick  movement  to  meet  the  little  cousin  who  had  been  in  his 
thoughts  all  through  the  long,  dark  watch  on  deck,  last  night, 
paused  also,  when  he  saw  the  fine  little  person  that  emerged  with 
rustling  silk  and  ribbons  in  the  flood  of  light  from  the  open  parlor 
door.  He  couldn't  catch  that  in  his  arms  !  He  had  been  used  to 
tarred  ropes  and  rough  sailcloth.  He  had  thought  of  Say,  with- 
out her  foibles  or  fineries,  as  we  do  always  think  of  the  lost  or  far 
awa'y;  and  now,  here  she  was,  "dressed  up,  and  toes  in  position," 
as  he  had  said,  of  old,  in  Hilbury ;  and  this  to  welcome  him  ! 

She  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  and  he  kissed  her ;  but  she 
felt  that  "  he  wasn't  half  so  glad  to  see  her  as  she  had  expected." 
She  knew  there  was  a  disapproval  in  the  look  bent  down  upon  her, 
as  they  went  in,  together,  to  the  bright  parlor.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  great  charm  in  the  new  silk  dress,  after  all.  Nobody  thought 
much  of  it.  She  began  to  hate  it  herself.  Somehow,  things  didn't 


130  The  Gayworthys. 

feel  so  true  to  her,  as  they  had  a  few  minutes  ago.  She  was  a 
little  ashamed  of  this  great  light  she  had  got  up  in  the  room. 

"  When  did  Uncle  Reuben  and  Aunt  Jane  go  to  Hilbury  ?  " 
asked  Gershom.  He  was  afraid  to  add  "  What  for?  " 

"  Last  Friday,  I  believe.     Grandpa's  sick." 

"  Sick  ?  How  sick  ?  "  He  turned  toward  her  quickly,  and  the 
words  came  with  a  jerk. 

"  Oh,  not  very,  I  guess.     He's  been  sick  a  good  deal  lately." 

There  was  a  silence,  then,  for  an  instant. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  much  about  it,"  said  Gershom,  pres- 
ently, with  something  of  the  old,  hard,  bitter  tone.  t  You're  keen- 
ing house  in  a  grand  way  here  all  alone." 

He  felt  indignant ;  but  it  was  not  that  only.  He  spoke  recklessly, 
anything,  rather  than  ask  on  about  what  he  was  afraid  to  hear. 

It  was  so,  then,  as  he  had  dreaded.  There  had  been  changes 
while  he  had  been  away.  He  should  not  find  all  as  it  was  in  the 
old  home  that  he  had  come  back  safely  to.  He  had  felt  the  pre- 
monition of  this  amidst  his  most  joyful  anticipations.  When  did 
he  ever  go  away  and  come  back  again,  after  any  of  the  few,  short 
absences  he  had  made  before,  and  find  all  as  he  had  left  it  ?  The 
first  time  he  went  a  journey  in  all  his  life, — to  Hilbury  it  was, 
with  his  mother,  when  Hilbury  was  not  yet  his  home, — he  had 
come  back  to  find  his  dog  dead ;  after  his  terms  at  school,  there 
had  always  been  something  altered  at  the  farm,  though  month  in 
and  out  while  he  stayed  there,  there  had  seemed  to  be  no  change 
at  all.  And  he  had  known  there  would  be  something  now.  And 
this  was  it.  This  that  he  had  not  dared  to  let  himself  be  afraid 
of,  but  that  he  knew  now  he  had  feared,  ever  since  he  sailed  away 
without  his  mother's  kiss,  and  the  old  man's  hand  laid  in  blessing 
on  his  head.  That  something  should  touch  one  of  those  two 
while  he  was  gone. 

He  stood  thinking  this,  and  looking  into  the  fire. 

Say  got  into  the  corner  of  the  sofa  and  watched  him,  with  great 
tears  coming  in  her  eyes,  and  feeling  mean  and  miserable  in  her 
silk  gown,  and  wishing  that  it  would  turn  to  rags  like  Cinderella's, 
and  that  the  lamps  would  somehow  all  go  out. 

"  How  long  ago  did  he  begin  to  be  sick  ? "  Gershom  asked 
again,  after  a  while,  still  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  First  of  all  ?  "  said  Say,  tremulously. 

"  Yes." 

"Why,  ever  so  long.  After  he  went  home  from  here.  Mother 
said  he  got  tired  out,  because  he  wouldn't  stay  when  you  were 
gone  ;  and  then  he  got  caught  in  a  great  rain  ;  and  so  mother  and 
J  went  to  Hilbury,  and  he  was  sick  a  good  while." 

"Tell  me  exactly  when  that  was,"  said  Gershom,  turning  round 
suddenly  and  sternly  upon  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  culprit  whom 
he  was  cross-questioning. 

The  sobs  fairly  came  in  the  child's  throat  now. 


Into  Port.  131 

"  If  you  on*7  wouldn't  be  so  cross  with  me,"  she  said,  with  a 
piteous  falter.  "  It  was — that  night — after  you  went  away  in 
the  Pearl — that  grandpa  came.  And  he  was  so  tired  and  sorry. 
And — so  was  I,  Gershie.  And  I  thought — I  should  be  so  glad 
— when  you  came  back  !  " 

She  crushed  herself  all  down  into  a  heap,  as  she  finished,  and 
hid  her  head  against  the  sofa-pillow,  crying. 

Then  Gershom  came  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  spoke  more 
softly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross  with  you,  Say.  Only  it  seemed  as 
if  you  didn't  care  very  much  at  first.  And  you  were  all  dressed 
up  so.  I  never  liked  you  quite  so  well  when  you  were  fine,  you 
know;  and  I'm  a  rough  sailor  now.  Besides,  we  can't  be  very 
glad  if  grandfather  is  sick." 

"  You  think  I  don't  care  for  anything  but  ribbons  and  new 
shoes.  You  always  did.  I  wish  you'd  put  out  all  the  lamps  and 
let  me  cry." 

"  No,  don't  cry,  Say.  I  won't  be  cross.  But  I  want  to  know 
all  about  it.  Sit  up  and  tell  me."  He  put  his  arm  round  her, 
gently,  and  drew  her  up  out  of  her  abandonment.  "  Didn't 
mother  get  my  letter  ?  I  wrote  and  told  her  when  the  Pearl  was 
going  to  sail." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  guess  so,"  said  Say,  struggling  with  her 
tears.  If  Gershie  meant  to  be  kind,  she  wouldn't  be  sulky.  "  But 
grandpa  thought  perWkps  she  wouldn't  go.  So  he  came  and  went 
right  back  again,  in  the  rain."  Say  paused  here,  but  Gershom 
waited  for  more,  and  with  an  effort  she  went  on.  "  I  don't  re- 
member exactly  ;  but  mother  and  I  went  up  to  Hilbury  when  they 
sent  us  word,  and  there  was  something  about  a  letter,  too  ;  I  heard 
Aunt  Prue  ask  mother  if  it  came  before  you  went.  I  remember 
that,  because  mother  said  yes,  and  Aunt  Prue  seemed  to  be  put 
out  because  mother  hadn't  given  you  the  message." 

Here  it  was  again.  Something  kept  back  and  covered  up,  that 
he  was  to  have  known.  He  remembered  well  the  mention  of  the 
letter,  of  which  all  that  had  been  told  him  had  been  about  the 
four  new  linen  shirts.  Aunt  Jane,  with  her  soft,  sympathizing 
ways,  had  been  double,  both  in  speech  and  deed. 

Say  slid  back  again  into  her  corner ;  she  had  exerted  herself 
thus  far  rather  than  be  sulky  with  Gershom  ;  but  it  would  not  be 
quite  right  with  her  now  till  she  should  have  had  her  cry  out,  let 
him  be  as  kind  as  he  might.  He  partly  let  her  go  ;  something  in 
him  at  that  moment  shrunk  away  from  Jane  Gair's  child. 

Say  drew  little  sobbing  breaths,  softly.  Gershom  seemed  not 
to  be  aware.  In  a  minute  or  two  she  looked  around  furtively. 

"  I  could  find  the  letter  if  you  want  it,  Gershom.  I  know  where 
mother  puts  them  all.  And  there  are  only  one  or  two  of  Aunt 
Prue's." 

"  I  don't  read  other  people's  letters,"  answered  Gershom,  shortly. 


132  The  Gayworthys. 

"I  only  meant  about  the  message,"  said  Say,  deprecatingly. 
She  felt  suddenly  mean,  again,  as  if  she  had  tried  to  steal  some- 
thing and  been  caught.  She  loved  Gershom  dearly  ;  and  yet  he 
always  made  her  feel  a  self-contempt,  somehow.  She  did  not  think 
he  was  fair  to  her,  and  yet  he  made  her  look  at  herself  with  his 
eyes.  People  she  feared  or  cared  for  always  did  this.  They  over- 
magnetized  her.  She  could  not  maintain  her  thought  against  theirs. 

"  Good-night,  Say,"  said  Gershom,  suddenly.  "  I'm  going  down 
aboard  the  Pearl  again.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  go  to  Hil- 
bury.  I've  got  some  great  pink  and  spotted  shells  for  you  in  my 
chest,  and  a  red  basket.  I'll  give  them  to  the  steward  to  keep 
till  you  go  down." 

Say  kissed  him  when  he  leaned  down  to  her,  and  said  not  a  word 
to  urge  him  from  his  purpose.  It  never  entered  her  head  to  dis- 
pute Gershom's  will.  In  a  moment  he  was  gone.  Then  she 
climbed  up  on  the  table  and  screwed  dowrn  the  lamps  one  after 
another,  till  there  was  only  the  firelight  left  in  the  room.  And 
then  she  reached  and  tugged  at  the  hooks  of  her  dress,  till  she 
had  unfastened  them  all,  and  pushed  it  down  about  her  to  the 
floor.  She  just  set  her  foot  upon  it  once,  deliberately,  as  it  lay 
there,  and  then  flung  herself  back  into  the  sofa-corner  again,  and 
pulled  the  pillow  down  over  her  head  and  her  bare  shoulders,  and 
lay  and  cried,  saying  over  and  over  to  herself,  "  It  was  horrid, — 
horrid ! "  Half  comprehending  her  own  shame  and  pain,  she 
cried  herself  to  sleep  at  last ;  and  Winny,  when  the  game  of  cards 
was  finished  in  the  kitchen,  came  up  and  found  her  so. 

Gershom  went  down  through  the  dim  streets  to  the  wharf  and 
to  the  brig  again.  The  shipkeeper's  watch — a  couple  of  sturdy 
fellows — were  pacing  the  quarter-deck  ;  they  took  no  notice  as 
Gershom  came  up  the  side,  and  passed  on  forward.  He  had  said, 
when  he  went  ashore,  that  he  might  as  likely  as  not  come  back 
to  sleep.  An  hour  after,  Ned  Blackmore  also  returned.  The 
watch  knew  him,  too ;  he  passed  his  nights  on  board,  more  often 
than  otherwise,  when  the  brig  was  in  port.  Indeed,  it  had  usually 
been  counted  on  that  he  would ;  and  Buxton,  the  shipkeeper, 
arranged  his  force  accordingly.  Blackmere  passed  quietly  forward, 
also,  and  went  down  into  the  forecastle.  He  struck  a  match,  and 
lit  his  pipe.  His  face  showed  sterner  and  gloomier  than  ever,  by 
the  instant's  flash.  He  saw  Gershom  Vorse  lying  in  his  berth ; 
and  a  kind  of  lurid  smile  came  over  his  features,  revealing  rather 
than  relaxing,  their  grim  look,  as  the  lightning  shows  the  cloud. 

"  He  wasn't  wanted  then,  no  more  than  I  ;  he'll  find  'em  out, 
at  last."  Old  Barnacle  said  this  to  himself,  as  his  match  went 
out,  and,  with  his  pipe  alight,  he  passed  quietly  up  the  ladder  and 
out  upon  the  deck. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  not  asleep.  He  heard  Ned  Blackmere 
pacing  there,  above  him, — to  and  fro,  to  and  fro, — for  half  the 
night  after. 


Coming.  133 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
COMING. 

WEALTHY  HOOGS  went  down  through  the  long  barn  with  her 
milk-pails  on  her  arm. 

She  set  them  on  the  floor,  and  passed  between  the  stanchions 
into  the  great  standing-place.  There  she  set  open  a  side  door  that 
led  into  the  yard ;  and  one  after  another  five  great  mild,  milky- 
sweet  mammals  put  their  horned  heads,  with  rimy,  vaporous  nos- 
trils, in  at  the  entrance,  and  presently  offered  their  meek  necks  to 
captivity  of  peg  and  beam. 

Wealthy  tossed  down  great  trusses  of  hay  to  them  from  the 
mow-side,  and  took  a  minute's  rest,  then,  while  they  were  feeding, 
sitting  down  on  the  shaft  of  a  heavy  hay-wagon,  and  leaning  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  in  her  hands. 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  never  any  end  to  doin  !  "  she  said  to  her- 
self. And  I  should  like  to  know  how  it  would  seem,  just  once,  to 
be  done  for  f — I  should  like  to  be  made  much  of,  and  tended, — 
yes,  babied,  awhile,  for  the  sake  of  finding  out.  When  I  get  to 
heaven,  if  I  can  have  what  I  want,  it'll  be  a  good  strong  angel  to 
follow  round  after  me,  and  see  to  me  all  the  time !  " 

"That's  a  pretty  way  of  talking,  too,  Wealthy  Hoogs!"  she 
said,  again,  catching  herself  up  after  a  pause.  "  As  if  you  didn't 
suppose  you'd  got  it  now  ! — There's  nothing  given  out,  that  isn't 
given  in  again  from  Somewhere.  Tell  yourself  that." 

The  red  winter  sun,  setting  far  to  the  south,  sent  its  crimson 
shaft,  ninety-five  million  miles  long,  straight  in  at  the  low  barnside 
door,  and  told  it  her,  too.  "  There's  a  way  for  it  to  come,  though 
it's  from  ever  so  far ! "  This  thought  whispered  itself  to  her,  and 
she  rose  up  again  to  her  labor. 

"She  took  up  her  burden  of  life,  again," 
Not  saying,  even,  "  it  might  have  been  ! " 

The  three  deep  pails  were  foaming  full  presently.  But,  before 
she  carried  them  up  to  the  house,  Wealthy  went  round  to  where 
the  "gray  colt" — an  equine  youth  of  twenty — stood  in  his  stall, 
and  led  him  out,  and  put  his  harness  on  him.  The  sleigh,  a  small 
square  box  on  runners,  stood  outside.  Wealthy  and  her  steed 
went  forth  together  and  the  scrubby,  precocious  little  beast  helped 
all  he  could  to  put  himself  into  the  shafts. 

Ten  minutes  after,  the  milk  was  strained  ;  and  Wealthy  came 
into  the  kitchen  where  Jaazaniah,  in  a  wadded  gown  of  comfortable 
homespun,  sat  by  the  fire. 

He  had  got  a  good  deal  of  "the  rough  off,"  poor  fellow,  since 


134  The  Gayworthys. 

we  saw  him  last.  Rheumatic  fever  had  had  him  in  its  c 
and  had  wrenched  him  in  every  joint.  And  now,  feeble,  and  «iin, 
and  pale,  with  a  "  tumble  poor  appetite,"  and  a  "  wearin'  kind  of 
a  cough,"  he  sat  here,  day  after  day,  and  waited  ;  to  get  better,  or 
worse.  And  Wealthy  did  the  nursing,  and  the  housework,  and, 
as  we  have  seen,  pretty  much  of  the  out-door  work,  too. 

"  I've  put  the  colt  into  the  sleigh,  Jez,"  she  said,  cheerily  as  she 
came  in.  "  And  if  you  don't  mind  it,  for  an  hour  or  so,  I'm  going 
to  drive  down  to  the  Bridge.  There's  roots  to  be  cut,  and  wood 
to  split,  and  some  little  tinkerin'  jobs  to  do  about ;  and  I  must  see 
to  get  'Siah  Ford  up  for  a  day  or  two.  And,  then,  I  don't  durst  to 
be  any  longer  without  that  liniment ;  you  might  have  your  pain 
back,  on  a  sudden ;  and.  Jez, — I've  half  a  mind  to  get  that  new 
doctor  to  drop  round  here  and  take  a  look  at  you.  He  might 
think  of  something,  you  know,  to  start  your  appetite,  and  give  you 
a  little  strength." 

This  last,  you  see,  was  what  Wealthy  had  really  made  up  her 
mind  to  go  for. 

There  had  come  a  new  doctor  to  the  Bridge,  within  three  months 
past.  Good  Doctor  Gayworthy's  failing  health  had  created  an 
"  opening."  With  nobody  knows  what  instinct,  from  however  far 
away,  there  is  always  an  instant  heading  of  eager  capacity  towards 
room  so  made.  How  do  they  find  it  out  ?  How  do  the  wild  geese 
find  out  when  the  great  icebergs  are  breaking  up,  northward,  and 
the  summer  seas  are  widening,  and  they  may  go  and  build  their 
nests  ? 

The  stage  drove  up  to  the  Post-office,  as  Wealthy  Hoogs  came 
into  the  village  at  the  Bridge.  Post-office  and  village  store  were 
all  one  ;  and  here  Wealthy  also  drove  up  and  alighted ;  and  so  met 
Gershom  Vorse. 

"  Well,  of  all  things  !  To  think  I  should  have  lit  right  upon 
you  ! "  she  cried.  "  When  did  you  get  back  from  sea  ?  Do  your 
folks  expect  you  ?  There  don't  seem  to  be  any  of  'em  here.  Jump 
right  in  with  me.  I  can  take  you  round,  just  as  well  as  not.  I've 
only  got  to  speak  to  'Siah  Ford,  and  stop  a  minute  at  the  new 
doctor's." 

The  new  doctor's ! 

Those  three  words  told  Gershom  how  the  last  eight  months  had 
settled  his  life  for  him.  His  good  old  grandfather  breaking  down, 
disabled ;  his  place  already  filled.  Would  it  have  been  so  if  he 
had  stayed  at  home ;  if  he  had  taken  up  the  life  the  old  man  meant 
for  him  ;  if  everybody  had  known  that  he  was  coming,  by  and  by, 
when  he  was  needed,  to  follow  the  hereditary  calling  for  which, 
for  three  generations  back,  there  had  not  failed  a  son  of  the  same 
house  ?  He  would  have  been  nearly  through  a  college  year,  by 
this  time  ;  and  he  had  been  ready  to  enter  as  Sophomore.  Would 
his  grandfather  have  been  ill,  but  for  the  worry  and  exposure  he 
had  been  the  means  of  his  incurring ;  but  for  the  want  of  the  help. 


Coming.  135 

also,  that  he  should  have  given  ?  They  were  painful,  self-scourg- 
ing thoughts  the  boy  had,  as  he  sat  there,  waiting  while  Wealthy 
Hoogs  got  her  bottle  filled  with  liniment. 

"  1  suppose  you've  heard  all  the  Hilbury  news  ?  "  said  Wealthy, 
as  she  took  her  seat  beside  him. 

"  No,"  said  Gershom.  "  There  were  only  two  other  passengers 
in  the  coach ;  and  they  were  strangers.  The  driver  seemed  to  be 
a  new  man  too." 

"  That's  part  of  the  news.  Abner's  gor.  out  West.  Where 
the  smartest  men  and  the  laziest  all  go.  He  lazy  one.  He'll 
expect  to  stand  out  in  the  middle  of  a  prairie  .  n  p'int  round  ; 
north,  south,  east,  west ;  an'  say  '  Wheat,  Barley,  Oats,  Rye,'  an' 
see  'em  grow !  Maybe  he  will ;  but  it's  a  good  way  to  go  on  a 
slim  chance.  Old  Mr.  Fairbrother's  dead,  you  know?  " 

How  should  he  know  ?  Gershom  started.  The  words  smote 
him  with  a  shock.  Was  everybody  dead,  or  dying,  or  gone,  that  he 
had  come  back  to  see,  after  these  eight  months  ? 

"  Oh  yes ;  he  died,  quite  sudden,  a  month  ago.  I  forgot ;  of 
course,  you  couldn't  have  got  a  letter  since  then.  I  think  that's 
one  thing  that's  helped  to  upset  your  grandfather.  They  were 
always  great  friends." 

"  How  is — the  Doctor  ?  " 

Gershom  was  sensitive,  all  at  once,  coming  back  to  his  town's 
people,  of  using  again  the  term  of  kinship,  which  might  only  set 
them  thinking  that  he  had  no  right  to  it ;  that  there  was  "  no 
blood-relation,  after  all." 

"  Well," — hesitatingly, — "  you  heard  he  was  sick  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  heard  that  in  Selport." 

"  He's  been  pretty  bad,  that's  a  fact.  Most  folks  thought  he 
wouldn't  weather  through  it.  Lung  trouble  again.  But  he's  got 
a  wonderful  constitution.  And  he's  had  good  nursin'.  Those 
things  come  before  doctors,  both  of  'em.  And  /guess,  when  Jane 
Gair  and  her  husband's  gone,  and  the  house  gets  quieted  down, 
he'll  pick  up,  and  be  smart  again.  It's  the  worst  thing  in  the 
world  to  send  for  sick  folks'  friends,  without  they  can  do  some- 
thing. They  just  gather  round,  and  look  on ;  and  I  believe  half 
the  people  that  die,  do  it  because  they  see  it's  expected  of  'em. 
Nobody  likes  to  make  a  muster  for  nothing." 

"  How  is  Jaazaniah,  Cousin  Wealthy  ?" 

He  asked  it  more  for  kindness'  sake,  and  to  change  the  topic, 
than  from  any  doubt  of  the  farmer's  well-being;  but  he  got 
Wealthy's  last  item  of  news  for  answer.  Still  of  the  same  sort. 

"Jaazaniah's  keeled  up,  too  ;  he's  had  a  rheumatic  fever,  and 
been  poorly  enough  all  winter.  That's  what  I'm  coming  here 
for." 

And  she  motioned  Gershom,  who  held  the  reins,  toward  the 
white  paling  of  the  little  house  on  the  corner  of  the  village  street. 
This  was  where  the  "  new  doctor"  lived. 


136  The  Gayworthys. 

The  world  goes  on,  pausing  for  nobody  to  make  experiments,  or 
change  his  mind.  Nobody  can  take  up  his  old  life-thread  at  any 
one  point  where  he  may  have  left  it.  Everything  else  has  shaped 
itself  to  his  first  decision,  with  a  facile,  fatal  mobility.  Circum 
stances  have  flowed  in  around  his  act,  and  hardened  to  barriers 
against  recantation. 

In  his  first  half  hour  at  Hilbury,  Gershom  Vorse  began  to  grow 
aware  of  this. 

"  Let  me  get  cr-  icre,"  he  said,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  "  And 
you  drive  rigH'  ..iraight  on.  Unless  you'll  come  in,  I'd  as  lief  not 
have  them  hea*  the  bells  stop  at  the  house." 

"  Oh,  I  can  t  come  in,"  said  Wealthy.  "  Jez'll  be  growing  un- 
easy ;  and  I  guess  you're  in  the  right  to  get  in  as  quiet  as  you  can. 
Nobody  knows,  that  hasn't  been  sick,  or  been  a  good  deal  with  'em, 
how  sick  folks  mistrust  all  that  goes  on  about  a  house.  Oh,  la," — 
to  Gershom's  thanks, — "  it  was  no  kind  of  trouble !  come  and  see 
Jez,  won't  you?  It'll  do  him  a  sight  of  good,"  and  Mrs.  Hoogs 
made  mild  suggestions  with  bit  and  reins,  to  her  well-broken  nag, 
and  drove  straight  on,  as  she  was  asked. 

Gershom  walked  up  the  hill,  and  turned  in  by  the  garden  fence, 
across  the  chipyard.  He  went  up  to  the  side  door,  and  there  he 
stopped ;  and  stood  still  upon  the  great  doorstone.  If  he  could 
only  see  his  mother,  first,  alone  ! 

They  were  all  expecting  him,  shortly.  Only  his  mother,  though, 
thought  of  him  momently,  and  momently  looked  for  him  to  come. 
The  vessel  would  be  in  fair  time,  Mr.  Gair  had  told  them,  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  or  by  the  first  of  next.  This  was  only  Thursday. 

But  Prudence  Vorse  was  restless  to-night.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  air  for  her,  though  other  nerves  might  easily  not  feel 
it.  She  could  not  pass  a  window,  in  her  goings  to  and  fro,  with- 
out looking  out  into  the  winter  starlight. 

Jane  was  upstairs,  sitting  with  her  father ;  she  always  had  the 
evening  watch  in  the  sick-room,  as  she  could  not  sit  up  nights ; 
Rebecca,  who  was  to  be  called  at  ten,  was  sleeping  in  her  own 
chamber ;  Joanna  was  washing  up  the  tea-things  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  Mrs.  Vorse  was  making  a  bowl  of  arrowroot  at  the 
kitchen  fire,  when  Wealthy  Hoogs  drove  by,  her  sleigh-bells  leav- 
ing a  cheery  wake  of  sound  behind  her. 

Nobody  else  noticed  it ;  but  it  startled  Prue.  Why  ?  It  went 
straight  on  ;  yet  the  noise  of  the  bells  broke  upon  her  like  a  sum- 
mons, and  seemed  to  ring  a  message  to  her,  as  it  passed. 

"  Coming — coming — coming — coming  !  "  If  they  did  not  syl- 
lable it,  they  put  the  feeling,  somehow,  with  a  fresh  leap,  into  her 
heart. 

She  set  down  the  bowl,  into  which  she  had  just  stirred  salt  and 
a  teaspoonful  of  brandy  ;  she  stood,  looking  into  the  coals,  think- 
ing ;  sending  her  soul  out  to  meet  the  child.  Away  out  upon  the 
deep  she  had  gone  in  spirit,  day  after  day,  night  after  night; 


Coming.  137 

down  upon  the  seacoast  she  had  waited,  thinking  of  the  bright 
sails  that  should  come  up,  some  morning,  in  the  winter  sunlight, 
bringing  her  hope  again  ;  to-day,  somehow,  she  had  not  yearned 
forth  so  far ;  she  had  thought  of  when  he  might  be  coming  on  the 
homeward  road,  up  from  the  busy  city,  into  the  white  stillness  of 
the  hills ;  and  every  now  and  then,  let  her  be  doing  what  she 
might,  a  joy  that  seemed  hanging  in  the  air  would  seize  her  sud- 
denly, with  a  sweet  electric  pang.  Now — this  moment — it  was 
close  upon  her.  Farther  than  the  echo  of  those  bells,  she  could  not 
send  her  thought  out ;  but  to  the  sound  of  them  her  pulse  sprang 
restlessly ;  so  she  set  her  bowl  down,  and  stood  there,  listening, 
those  few  moments  while  their  resonance  lasted ;  and  then  sud- 
denly, she  turned,  as  by  some  swift  magnetic  impulse,  and  went 
out  toward  the  door.  Not  knowing  why.  She  would  look  down 
the  road.  She  would  feel  what  the  weather  was. 

She  did  neither.  She  looked  no  further  than  her  boy's  face, 
waiting  for  her  there  in  the  starlight.  She  felt  no  cold  that  came 
in  with  him.  She  folded  him  silently  in  her  arms,  and  drew 
him  in. 

Joanna  came  presently  from  the  sitting-room,  and  found  the  two 
standing  together  on  the  kitchen  hearth.  An  exclamation  sprang 
to  her  lips  ;  but  Prue  put  her  finger  up,  and  the  habit  of  the  still 
house  checked  her.  She  gave  him  a  glad  greeting,  quietly ;  and 
would  have  gone  away  again,  then,  and  left  him  to  his  mother. 

But  for  the  bowl  of  arrowroot,  Prue  might  have  been  glad  to 
have  it  so  ;  as  it  was,  she  stopped  her.  "  Never  mind,  Joanna  ;  it 
isn't  worth  while ;  the  Doctor  must  have  this  while  it's  fresh,  and 
he  takes  it  best  from  me." 

"  Can  I  see  grandfather  to  night  ?  "  asked  Gershom. 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  said  Prue,  slowly  and  emphatically,  "  or 
else — I  wish  nobody  besides  need  know  that  you  are  in  the 
house ! " 

"  Why  ?  "  questioned  Joanna  quickly,  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Prue,  still  with  the  same  slow  ear- 
nestness. "  I  can't  always  tell  why  I  do  think  things.  I  don't 
know  why  I  went  and  opened  the  door  just  now ;  but  I  did  ;  and  I 
couldn't  have  helped  it ;  and  Gershom  was  there." 

Prue  was  of  too  integral  an  honesty,  perhaps,  to  understand  the 
subtle  shadows  of  doubt  that  warned  her  of  a  doubleness  in 
another.  But  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling,  although  she  did  not 
care  to  define  it,  that  if  Jane  knew  of  the  boy's  arrival,  it  would 
mix  up  things  somehow ;  that  some  untowardness  would  result ; 
either  the  old  man  would  be  sure  to  be  unable  for  the  meeting,  or 
it  would  happen  at  some  unfavorable  moment.  What  Jane  would 
have  to  do  with  this,  she  hardly  thought ;  she  could  not  certainly 
have  told.  There  are  unspoken  instincts  of  knowledge  between 
life  and  life,  of  which  we  can  scarcely  trace  the  growing  up ;  we 
only  know,  surely,  that  they  are  there. 


138  The  Gayvvorthys. 

"  Let  me  go  up  to  your  room,  mother ;  you'll  be  able  to  come 
there  presently,  won't  you  ?  I'd  rather  not  see  them  all  to-night." 

"  There's  no  need  of  saying  anything,  if  you  don't  choose,"  said 
Joanna  to  Prue.  "  The  house  is  settled  for  the  night,  and  it's  just 
as  well  to  make  no  stir." 

Joanna,  who  hated  so  all  intermeddling  of  "  other  folks,"  could 
well  see  how  mother  and  son  might  long  to  be  together,  and  have 
each  other  quiet  to  themselves.  This  was  all  she  saw.  The  same 
straightforward  independence  which  she  would  have  have  used  in 
her  own  behalf,  she  counseled  in  theirs,  It  was  nobody's  else 
business,  if  they  chose  to  have  it  so.  and  nothing  need  be  said. 

It  was  all  quite  reasonable,  and  right,  and  easy;  Joanna  under- 
stood ;  to-morrow  it  would  be  enough  to  say  that  Gershom  had 
been  tired,  and  had  not  cared  to  see  them  all  at  once ;  and  that 
the  house  was  still,  and  so  he  had  gone  quietly  up-stairs ;  and 
before  this  need  be  said  at  all,  when  his  grandfather  should  wake 
in  the  early  morning,  in  Prue's  watch,  if  all  were  well,  she  might 
bring  him  in,  and  have  the  meeting  over. 

But  this  was  not  quite  after  Prue's  way  for  all ;  and  she  felt  like 
a  smuggler,  going  up  the  end  staircase  to  her  own  room,  Gershom 
following;  and  when  she  left  him  there,  and  turned  away  taking 
her  bowl  of  arrowroot  to  the  Doctor's  chamber,  where  Jane  sat,  it 
was  with  a  sensation  foreign  and  intolerable  to  her  nature. 

Prudence  Vorse  would  never  have  made  a  general.  She  would 
have  never  been  equal  to  any  magnificent  strategy  ;  she  would 
have  marched  her  men  right  up  in  face  of  the  enemy,  in  broad 
daylight,  and  dared  his  guns  ;  and  beaten  him  so,  in  fair  fight,  or 
not  at  all. 

She  held  her  tongue  as  she  came  to  the  bedside,  and  Jane  gave 
up  her  seat  to  her ;  but  she  put  a  force  upon  herself  to  do  it,  be- 
cause, here,  she  must ;  and  she  was  glad  when  Jane  moved  quietly 
off  and  went  away,  while  she  should  give  the  old  man  his  gruel. 
Afterward,  when  she  met  her  on  the  stairs,  coming  up,  as  she 
went  down,  she  passed  her  quickly, — almost  roughly, — still  without 
a  word.  Jane  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  smiled  a  little  as  she 
went  on.  "  Prue's  in  one  of  her  fierce  fits,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  It 
must  be  horribly  uncomfortable."  And  hugged  herself  placidly  in 
spirit.  Jane  was  never  fierce ;  calm  and  good-natured,  always ; 
never  forgetting  to  be  polite.  One  got  along  so  much  better  in 
the  world,  if  one  were  only  wise  enough  to  know  it. 

At  ten  o'clock  Prue  went  and  called  Rebecca.  She  stood  there 
in  the  passage  between  Jane's  room  and  the  doctor's  until  Rebecca 
glided  in  and  Jane  came  out.  Then  she  stopped  her  and  spoke 
abruptly : — 

"  Gershom  is  come,  Jane.  I  didn't  choose  that  you  should 
know  it  before  ;  and  he  don't  want  to  see  anybody  else  till  morning. 
First  of  all,  if  the  doctor  wakes  comfortable,  I  mean  he  shall  see 
him  " 


Coming.  139 

It  was  a  fair  fight,  and  aboveboard,  now.  By  the  very  estab- 
lishment of  this,  Jane's  guns  were  silenced.  She  had  not  a  word 
to  say, — she,  in  her  soft  politeness.  Brusque  truth  was  not  her 
weapon,  as  it  was  Prue's.  She  must  have  vantage-ground,  and 
mask  her  batteries  ;  Prue  came  upon  them  with  a  bayonet-charge 
of  outright  honesty,  and  carried  the  whole  line  at  a  sweep.  There 
is  nothing  that  so  circumvents  circumvention  as  a  thorough,  un- 
looked-for directness. 

In  the  chill  between  midnight  and  morning,  Prue  took  up  her 
watch  in  the  sick-room. 

"  Father  has  been  rather  restless  :  he  wanders  a  little,  I  think. 
I  can  hardly  tell  whether  it  is  that  or  dreaming.  He  talks  about 
Benjamin,  and  even  little  Will  that  died  so  long  ago."  Will  was 
Jane's  brother,  dead  in  babyhood,  thirty  years  before. 

Rebecca  said  this  low,  at  the  door,  before  she  went. 

"  I  think,  Prue,  he  has  never  left  off  worrying  about  Gershom, 
he  put  him  so  in  their  place.  If  he  would  only  come  soon  !  " 

"  He  has  come,  Becsie  :  he  came  last  night."  Her  tenderness 
and  joy  welled  up  in  these  words,  as  she  spoke  them  to  Rebecca. 
Prudence  was  neither  rough  nor  fierce  now.  The  two  women 
leaned  to  each  other  with  a  mutual  impulse,  and  their  lips  met. 

A  low  voice  breathed  from  the  bed,  as  Prue  came  up  to  it 
alone : — 

" '  Me  have  ye  bereaved  of  my  children.  Joseph  is  not,  and 
Simeon  is  not ;  and  ye  will  take  Benjamin  away :  all  these  things 
are  against  me.' 

"  Send  for  Ben,  Prue ; "  and  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  her  face 
beseechingly.  "  Tell  him  to  come  to  me.  All  the  boy  I've  got  in 
the  world  ;  what  did  he  go  away  for  ?  Benjamin — it  was  right  he 
should  be  named  so,  he  was  Rachel's  son, — the  son  of  my  old 
age." 

"  Go  to  sleep  now,  father :  he  is  coming ;  he  will  be  here  by 
and  by." 

"  '  One  went  out  from  me  ;  and  I  saw  him  not  since ;  and  if  ye 
take  this  also  from  me,  ye  shall  bring  down  iny  gray  hairs  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave.'  " 

The  story  of  Israel  wandered  in  his  brain, — this  old  man,  whose 
sons  had  died  in  babyhood  and  boyhood ;  from  whom  they  had 
lured  his  last  stay, — Rachel's  child's  child,  whom  he  made  in  his 
heart  as  his  own;  who  had  grown  up,  reminding  him,  as  his 
youth  bloomed,  of  Benjamin  ;  growing  so  into  Benjamin's  place 
that  it  had  seemed  like  a  coming  back  of  the  lost :  so  that  now,  in 
his  wandering  and  weakness,  he  could  not  separate  the  thought  of 
the  two. 

But  he  slept  at  last,  quieted  by  that  promise, — a  real  sleep,  as 
if  something  of  the  peace  Prue  brought  in  with  her  had  stolen 
over  him  also ;  and  by  and  by, — hours  after, — when  the  gray  of 
the  tardy  January  dawn  began  to  crimson,  he  woke,  quite  calm 


140  The  Gayworthys. 

and  conscious :  conscious  of  something  that  had  come  to  him  as 
in  his  sleep, — that  was  his  first  thought  now  ;  but  that  he  was  not 
sure  of. 

"  Did  you  tell  me  he  had  come,  Prue  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,  father,"  said  Prue,  tenderly,  coming  to  him  with 
some  warm,  nourishing  drink  she  had  got  ready  ;  "  and  now  when 
you  have  had  this,  and  are  quite  rested  and  strong,  I'm  going  to 
bring  him  in  to  see  you." 

Prue  knew  just  how  to  hold  his  head  for  him,  and  give  him  his 
drink  comfortably ;  she  knew  also  just  how  much  to  bring, — she 
never  dismayed  him  with  a  cup  too  mighty ;  and,  partly  for  this 
and  partly  from  a  childlike  acceptance  of  it  as  a  condition,  the 
doctor  swallowed  it  all,  to  the  last  drop ;  and  then  he  lay  back, 
with  a  sweet  contentedness  in  his  face,  and  looked  up,  his  eyes 
asking  for  the  better  thing  she  was  to  give  him  next.  She  bathed 
his  face,  and  smoothed  his  white  hair,  and  laid  the  bedclothes 
even  ;  and  then  she  went  and  got  the  boy,  as  she  had  promised. 

"  An  old  man  always  looks  far  older  for  not  being  dressed,  Ger- 
shie,  or  for  ever  so  little  of  a  sickness ;  you  must  remember  that." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  cry,  mother,  like  a  girl." 

"  You  won't  do  any  such  thing,  Gershom,"  said  his  mother, 
quickly,  turning  short  round.  "  It  might  kill  him." 

They  went  in  together ;  and  Gershom  did  not  cry  :  but  the  tall, 
brown  sailor  stood  by  the  old  man's  bedside,  and  laid  his  rough- 
ened hand  in  his  ;  and  every  fiber  of  him  trembled  with  deep  feel- 
ing :  for  as  Jacob  had  been  to  Benjamin,  so  had  this  old  man  been 
even  to  him. 

And  the  legend  of  Genesis  was  still  repeating  itself  in  the  sick 
man's  thought ;  for  he  turned  him  toward  the  boy,  and  spoke  the 
words  familiar  from  many  a  heart-reading,  "  '  Now  let  me  die,  since 
I  have  seen  thy  face,  and  thou  art  yet  alive ! '  ' 

"  Grandfather!" 

It  was  all  in  that  one  word  :  The  fulness  of  feeling  that  dared 
no  further  trust  itself  to  utterance ; — the  pleading  remonstrance 
against  that  word  of  death, — the  sorrow,  the  self-accusing,  the 
love  ;  the  very  cry  of  Cain, — "  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ! "  There 
are  single  human  tones  that  can  say  all  this,  and  more. 

The  old  man  answered  it. 

"  My  son,  it  will  all  be  well,  and  as  God  pleases.  No  other  hath 
done  or  can  undo.  I  have  longed  for  you,  and  you  have  come.  I 
thank  Him  !" 

They  understood  each  other,  now :  they  felt  each  other,  heart 
to  heart.  None  could  put  a  thought  between  them  that  could  alter 
this. 

"  By  and  by  you  shall  come  and  tell  me  all  about  your  ship,  and 
your  sea-life.  You've  seen  a  bigger  piece  of  the  world  than  I  have, 
Gershie." 

The  voice  was  faint.     The  good  doctor  was   tired    with    his 


Biddy  Flynn  and  Her  Neighbors.       141 

effort  and  with  his  gladness ;  he  could  do  no  more  now  for  awhile 
than  to  rest  silently  in  his  grateful  thought.  But  he  would  not 
let  the  boy  go  away  heavy  with  too  great  solemnity.  He  would 
say  this  cheerful  word  of  common  interest  in  common  life  first. 

Gershom  spoke  no  further  till  he  stood  alone  with  his  mother  in 
her  chamber.  Then  he  looked  her  full  in  the  face  and  said — 

"  Tell  me,  mother,  if  you  can,  just  what  you  wrote  to  Aunt  Jane 
before  I  went." 

His  mother  repeated  to  him  that  postscript  of  her  letter,  word 
for  word.  It  had  lain  in  her  memory  even  since.  She  had  con- 
sidered it  well  before  she  wrote  it ;  she  had  reviewed  it,  mentally, 
over  and  over,  in  those  twenty-four  hours  between  the  sending  of 
it  and  the  receiving  of  her  son's  letter.  She  had  weighed  the 
probable  effect  of  every  word  upon  him.  She  had  not  given  him 
up,  even  on  that  Tuesday  night  when  his  own  word  came  that  he 
must  go  away  without  seeing  her. 

"  That  was  it,"  she  said,  when  she  had  finished.  "  And  I  felt 
sure  that,  let  things  be  as  they  might,  it  would  bring  you  back." 

Gershom  Vorse  turned  pale  about  the  lips. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  slowly,  and  without  vehemence,  "  I  will  never 
forgive  Aunt  Jane  for  this." 

And  at  that  moment  his  mother  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
answer  him  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BIDDY    FLYNN   AND   HER  NEIGHBORS. 

THERE  were  tidy,  white-curtained  windows,  with  blossoming 
plants  looking  out  at  the  panes,  and  rooms  with  clean-scoured 
floors,  where  bits  of  comfortable  carpet  were  laid  down,  and  all 
the  snug,  attractive  living  of  the  thrifty  poor,  in  some  other  por- 
tions of  that  same  tenement  whereof  the  back  room  of  the  ground 
floor  was  rented  and  punctually  paid  for  by  Ned  Blackmere. 
When  he  went  off  upon  his  voyages,  he  paid  beforehand.  His 
wife  should  not  be  without  a  roof  to  cover  her  and  her  shame. 

So  the  landlord  was  forbearing,  and  the  neighbors,  for  the  poor 
man's  sake,  complained  as  little  as  they  could.  But  they  drew 
their  little  children  inside  their  doors  when  her  staggering  step 
came  over  the  threshold  in  the  dusk ;  and  Biddy  Flynn,  the 
washerwoman,  would  listen  and  look  in  on  her  at  night,  before 
she  went  to  her  own  bed,  for  fear  of  fire.  Biddy  Flynn  had  a  fine 
silk  shawl  that  she  wore  on  Sundays  in  the  summer  time,  that 
Ned  Blackmere  had  brought  home  to  her  from  beyond  the  sea. 
They  all  pitied  Blackmere,  the  sailor, — these  simple  neighbors, 
in  their  honest  hearts  ;  and  when  his  sad,  stern,  weather-beaten 
face  was  seen  about,  and  he  passed  in  and  out,  at  intervals,  among 


142  The  Gayworthys. 

them,  they  took  a  solemn  look  on  their  faces,  too,  as  they  might 
do  for  one  who  had  death  in  his  home,  He  scarcely  knew  whether 
they  pitied  him  or  not.  He  never  sought  companionship  among 
them.  He  gave  Biddy  Flynn  the  shawl,  for  his  wife  was  not  fit 
for  it,  and  it  might  help  to  keep  her  patient.  He  was  afraid  that, 
some  day,  losing  patience,  they  might  turn  Susan  into  the  street. 

They  were  afraid,  too, — the  neighbors  ;  afraid  as  well  as  sorry 
for  him.  He  was  such  a  terrible  strong  man,  and  there  was  such 
an  anger  in  his  eye,  sometimes,  when  he  came  out. 

"  Lord  grant  he  mayn't  be  left  to  lift  his  hand  upon  her ! " 
Luke  Dolan  the  carpenter,  would  say  to  his  Betsy,  in  the  room 
above,  when  the  sound  of  fierce  words, — gin  made  her  devilish, 
not  stupid,  as  poor  Ned  had  said, — and  of  deep,  stern  answers, 
like  the  restrained  rumble  of  an  earthquake,  would  come  up  from 
below. 

But  the  room  below  was  sometimes  empty  for  weeks,  for  months ; 
then  the  neighbors  had  peace  and  respite.  Sukey  Blackmere  was 
"  off  on  her  travels,"  nobody  knew  where.  She  had  her  haunts, 
her  cronies ;  also,  they  knew  that  now  and  then,  to  get  more 
money,  she  would  go  and  "  take  a  place."  She  had  a  decent  suit 
of  black  that  only  saw  the  light  upon  these  emergencies.  She 
could  look  very  respectable  in  this,  with  her  black  hair  brushed, 
— it  was  silky  black  hair  still,  for  Sukey  had  been  handsome, — 
with  threads  of  gray  that  only  emphasized  the  respectability ;  and 
she  wore  a  middle-aged  dignity  that  one  would  hardly  have  sus- 
pected. She  was  a  good  cook,  and  an  Englishwoman  ;  that  was  a 
great  thing.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  the  household  of  a 
county  family,  in  the  old  country ;  hence  her  middle-aged  dig- 
nity that  could  be  so  deferential,  also  ;  a  manner  sure  to  take  here, 
where  a  rampant  independence  is  ordinarily  inspired  with  the  first 
breath  of  republican  air.  So  she  got  into  good  places,  at  high 
wages.  The  cloven  foot  showed  presently,  but  she  was  seldom 
"  overcome."  Her  fellow-servants  got  the  worst  of  it.  They 
called  her  what  her  husband  did, — a  she-devil.  True  to  the 
traditions  of  her  genus,  she  disappeared  by-and-by  in  a  grand 
explosion  ;  then  she  came  home  with  money  in  her  pocket, — mar- 
velously  well  lined,  sometimes,  after  short  absences, — and  dropped 
to  her  lower  parallel  of  life.  On  these  two  tracks  she  ran,  leaving 
behind  her  a  pretty  little  thread  of  history  that  only  she,  if  any  one, 
could  trace. 

I  do  not  mean  to  enter  into  it ;  my  story  lies  not  here.  What 
I  have  to  say  I  will  say  quickly.  Something  came  of  it  all,  one 
January  night ;  a  tragedy, — a  mystery ;  an  added  blackness  over 
old  Barnacle's  gloomy  life. 

Sukey  had  been  home  three  days ;  long  enough  to  be  at  her 
worst.  The  third  night  she  stayed  out  late. 

The  winter  evening  had  closed  in ;  the  little  families  were 
gathered,  each  to  its  own  fireside.  Children  were  washed  and  put 


Biddy  Flynn  and  Her  Neighbors.      143 

to  bed,  or  crawled  to  their  untidy  couches,  unwashed,  according  to 
the  genius  of  the  different  homes ;  for  there  was  not,  of  course, 
in  every  room  of  the  old  mansion  that  had  come  to  be  a  human 
hive,  that  poetry  of  humble  living  I  have  hinted  at  in  some,  simple 
supper-tables  were  cleared  away ;  bits  of  crockery  were  washed 
and  put  on  their  shelves ;  the  hour  of  domestic  comfort  or  dis- 
comfort had  arrived. 

Biddy  Flynn  was  home  from  a  hard  day's  work.  She  had  had 
her"  cup  o*  tay,"  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  First,  however,  she 
had  a  little  routine  of  ceremony  to  go  through.  She  had  some 
money  to  count  that  was  tied  up  in  an  old  stocking-foot  and  kept 
behind  the  press.  She  had  some  more  to  put  with  it  that  she 
unfastened  out  of  the  corner  of  her  neckerchief, — her  wages  for 
the  day.  This  she  reckoned  over  carefully,  and  added  to  the  rest ; 
and  then  to  prove  her  sum,  counted  up  all  together,  once  more. 
Biddy  was  saving  money — lone  woman  that  she  was — to  bring 
over  by  and  by  a  sister's  child  from  the  "  ould  counthry."  Then 
she  "  racked  "  her  hair,  and  tied  it  up  tight,  in  anticipation  of  her 
early  morning  toilet,  thereby  reduced  to  the  washing  of  her  face, 
and  the  tying  on  of  a  clean  cap  ;  then  she  said  her  prayers  ;  then 
one  would  have  thought  she  must  be  ready  for  repose  ;  but  there 
was  yet  one  thing  more  to  do. 

Against  the  wooden  partition  that  had  cut  a  large,  old-fashioned 
kitchen  in  two,  made  of  it  the  separate  tenements  of  Biddy  Flynn 
and  Sukey  Blackmere,  the  sailor's  wife, — hung  a  gaudy  colored 
print  of  the  Madonna.  High  up,  so  that  it  could  only  be  reached 
by  climbing  on  the  deal  table  that  stood  beneath. 

Every  night,  between  her  prayer  and  slumbers,  Biddy  so  aspired  ; 
and  every  night  the  gracious  Queen  of  Heaven  came  down, — from 
off  her  nail, — and  Biddy  had  a  vision.  A  surreptitious  vision, — 
hardly  beatific, — through  a  crack  of  the  old  boarding  from  which 
the  paper  had  split  away,  and  which,  just  here,  the  ingenious 
Biddy  had  enlarged, — to  a  comfortable  breadth  on  her  own  side, 
and  as  far  as  she  dared  upon  the  other.  Two  thirds  of  the  room, 
upon  the  further  side,  came  within  her  range  of  observation  ;  the 
bed  against  the  wall  below,  took  up  most  of  the  remaining  third. 
Holding  the  Blessed  Mary  fast  in  her  arms,  Biddy  made,  first,  her 
'ocular  examination  of  the  premises  ;  and  then,  applying  the  second 
feature  of  her  face  to  the  chink,  would  press  into  inquisitorial 
service  a  second  sense.  Usually,  she  smelt  gin  ;  and  for  its  being 
only  that,  and  not  fire,  she  would  thank  the  Holy  Mother,  and 
hang  her  reverently  up  again,  and  so  betake  herself  content  to  bed. 

A  desolate  room, — a  worse  than  desolate  man  ;  these  were  what 
Biddy  Flynn  looked  down  upon,  amazingly,  to-night. 

Ashes  upon  the  floor,  about  the  dead,  dirty  stove ;  a  broken 
bottle  on  the  hearth ;  a  pail  of  filthy  water,  with  a  black  mop-rag 
hanging  over  the  side,  conveying  its  contents  by  a  slow  dribble,  to 
the  floor ;  a  sloppy  table,  with  a  crust  and  a  tea-cup  upon  it ;  these 


144  The  Gayworthys. 

visible  by  the  blaze  of  an  inch  of  candle  standing  flat  upon  the 
brick  mantel,  without  a  stick.  By  the  miserable  fireside,  the  man 
who  had  come  home  across  the  seas,  to  this  ;  who  had  lighted  as 
he  could  his  forsaken  hearth,  and  sat  down  by  it,  gloomy  and 
despairing;  his  feet  among  the  ashes;  ashes  of  shame,  also,  upon 
his  bent  head, — ashes  of  hopelessness  upon  his  heart. 

"  Beast ! "  he  muttered,  showing  his  white  teeth,  set  with  pas- 
sion, and  clenching  tighter  the  closed  fists  between  which  he  leaned 
his  face,  and  sent  forth  his  compressed  speech.  "  And  this  stands 
between  me  and  the  chance  of  anything  better  on  God's  earth  ! — 
Dam-nation ! " 

Biddy  Flynn  shrunk  back  ;  she  had  no  business  with  this,  the 
horror  of  it  was  too  sacred ;  she  hung  up  the  Blessed  Mary  with 
trembling  hands,  and  prayed  that  glorified  Womanhood,  in  her 
ignorant  way,  for  mercy  on  what  womanhood  debased  had  crushed 
and  maddened. 

In  a  little  whiie  she  heard  his  chair  pushed  back,  and  his  step 
going  out  toward  the  door  at  the  back  that  opened  upon  a  narrow 
alley.  He  might  have  stayed  there,  waiting,  or  he  might  have 
gone  away ;  she  could  not  tell.  She  listened  awhile,  in  fear,  for 
what  sounds  might  come  back  into  that  next  room,  but,  hearing 
nothing,  by-and-by  she  fell  asleep. 

It  was  going  on  to  eleven  o'clock  when  Susan  Blackmere  turned 
her  unsteady  steps  into  the  alley.  She  put  her  hands  out,  reach- 
ing the  wall  on  either  side,  supporting  herself  so,  and  feeling  her 
dark  way.  A  person  looking  in  from  the  street  would  have  dis- 
tinguished nothing  in  the  gloom.  If  Susan  Blackmere,  though, 
had  but  turned  for  a  moment  and  looked  outward,  she  might  have 
seen,  against  the  light  of  the  entrance,  the  shadow  of  a  something 
that  came  silently  behind  her.  She  was  safe  not  to  turn,  how- 
ever, groping  her  way  so,  at  least  until  she  came  to  the  end. 
When  she  stopped  there  at  the  house  door,  the  figure  behind  her 
stopped,  and  crouched  down  low,  almost  prostrate  like  a  dog, 
against  the  farther  wall. 

She  passed  in  and  shut  the  door.  There  was  no  lock  upon  it ; 
the  children  had  pulled  out  an  old  bolt  and  lost  it,  long  ago  ;  but 
the  tenants  locked  their  separate  rooms  at  night,  and  it  was  no 
matter.  It  was  Susan  Blackmere's  own  affair,  whether  she  re- 
membered to  fasten  her  door  or  not.  As  often  as  not,  it  was  left 
as  she  left  it  now. 

She  stumbled  in,  over  the  pail,  with  a  snarl  and  a  curse.  She 
felt  towards  the  mantel,  and  searched  for  a  match  and  the  candle- 
end.  This  last  was  burned  down  and  gone.  She  snarled  and 
cursed  again,  and  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  brought  forth 
another.  Then  the  match  flickered  through  the  darkness,  and  the 
flame  fastened  itself  to  the  bit  of  wick,  and  the  small,  steady  light 
showed  presently,  the  whole  wretched,  squalid  place  again.  Showed 
It  to  two  eyes  that  glared  in  at  the  window. 


Biddy  Flynn  and  Her  Neighbors.       145 

"  Tree'd — by  G —  !     Now  we'll  see  who'll  blab  !  " 
And  the  figure  crouched  itself  again  and  waited. 

What  it  was  that  waked  Biddy  Flynn,  when  she  had  been  asleep 
an  hour  or  thereabout,  she  could  never  distinctly  tell. 

A  dull  blow,  or  a  fall,  and  a  strange  sound  of  something  crushed. 
— then  two  or  three  rapid  steps, — whether  she  had  dreamed  or 
heard  these,  in  her  coming  consciousness,  she  started  upright  in 
her  bed,  and  tried  to  comprehend. 

Dead  silence,  now.  But  something  awful  in  the  silence.  A 
sudden  horror  in  the  air  that  seized  her  in  every  nerve. 

Biddy  crossed  herself  and  listened,  motionless. 

Still  no  further  sound. 

"  Was  it  a  bad  dhrame,  I  wonder,  or  the  bit  of  herrin'  wid  me 
supper  ?  Holy  Mother !  but  I've  a  strange  feel,  the  night ! " 

It  might  not  have  been  five  minutes,  or  it  might  have  been  fif- 
teen, that  Biddy  sat  there  still,  with  shortened  breath  and  strained 
sense ;  but  she  calmed  a  little,  at  last,  her  muscles  relaxed,  she 
took  a  fuller  respiration,  and  was  about  to  lie  back  upon  her  pil- 
low when  there  came  a  sound  from  just  beyond  the  slight  parti- 
tion,— a  faint,  long,  gasping,  gurgling  moan,  like  nothing  but 
some  creature  dying  in  its  blood. 

"  Ooh  ! — Ahl  the  saints  !  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried,  and  clapped 
her  hands  upon  her  ears,  in  a  panic  of  ghastly  apprehension. 

For  minutes  more  she  cowered  and  quivered  in  an  ignorant  ter- 
ror ;  fearful  to  move,  fearful  to  stay  where  she  was. 

Then  she  slid  down  out  of  her  bed,  and,  gathering  up  her  shawl, 
which  served  her  for  an  extra  coverlet  in  the  cold  nights,  she 
wrapped  herself  about  with  it,  and  crept  toward  her  door. 

This  opened  on  the  side  of  the  room  furthest  from  the  Black- 
meres,  and  directly  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  old  staircase,  which 
ran  up  toward  the  back,  and  ended  at  Luke  Dolan's  door. 

"  Betsy  Dolan  ! — Luke  !  Luke  ! — Are  ye  there  at  ahl  ?  "  came  in 
a  hoarse,  gusty  whisper  through  the  keyhole ;  and  the  door  was 
shaken,  as  if  the  wind  had  got  in,  and  clattered  it. 

But  the  stout  carpenter  and  his  tired  wife  slept  sound. 

The  call  came  louder,  then. 

"  Arrah,  darlint,  waken,  for  the  love  of  Heaven! — Luke  Dolan! 
Betsy ! " 

And  Betsy  heard,  at  last. 

"  Whisht !  don't  rise  the  childher ! — What  is  it,  sure  ?  "  whispered 
Mistress  Dolan,  opening  the  door. 

Biddy  waited  for  no  word  or  ceremony,  but  pressed  in. 

"  The  Blessed  Lord  knows  what  it  is  !  It's  a  fit  or  a  murdher. 
down  below,  in  Blackmere's  !  Mak'  hashte,  and  come  down  wid 
yees,  for  it's  feared  I  am  of  me  life,  there,  me  lane  !  " 

A  head  came  out  at  the  opposite  door,  at  this ;  and  with  the 
multiplied  voices,  and  the  opening  and  shutting,  the  alarm  was 


146  The  Gayworthys. 

spread  till  the  whole  floor  was  roused.  There  was  a  striking  of 
lights, — a  hustling  into  clothes, — a  hurrying  down  the  stairs  ;  and, 
presently,  into  the  dank,  cheerless  room  where  Ned  Blackmere  had 
sat  brooding  alone,  three  hours  ago,  huddled  a  crowd  of  house- 
mates, eager  with  fear  and  curiosity. 

"  Stand  back,  all  of  ye !  "  said  Luke  Dolan,  going  first,  and  look- 
ing upon  the  bed.  "  There's  wurruk  here  for  the  cur'ner, — an'  the 
Lord  be  gracious  to  us  all !  " 

It  was  the  end  of  the  dark  thread  that  only  one  memory  could 
have  traced.  And  of  the  last  hours  through  which  it  wound,  there 
were  no  lips,  now,  to  speak. 

There  was  only  a  dead  woman  lying  there  across  the  bed,  face 
down  ;  beaten  in  among  the  clothes  ;  blood  welling  from  among  the 
matted  hair  ;  beside  her,  the  rough,  stained,  wedge-shaped  billet  of 
firewood  that,  in  some  human  hand,  had  done  the  deed. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SILENT   SIN. 

MR.  GAIR  went  down  to  Selport,  to  look  after  his  brig ;  and  his 
child.  People  drop  all  to  attend  the  summons,  when  message 
comes  that  a  kinsman  lies  in  danger  of  death  ;  nothing,  then,  is  of 
any  weight,  in  comparison ;  but  if  death  be  long  in  coming,  or  hold 
off,  uncertain,  affairs  become  peremptory  again.  If  any  change 
occur,  let  them  know.  Mr.  Gair  was  to  be  thus  apprised.  It  sug- 
gested itself  to  Jane,  in  that  underflow  of  thought  that  winds  on, 
subtilely,  among  anxieties  and  emotions,  strangely  untouched  of 
either — that  this  might  be  convenient,  "  if  anything  should  happen." 
She  never  could  have  anything  to  do  with  that  dreadful  milliner  at 
the  Bridge. 

Friday  and  Saturday  were  quiet,  easy  days  ;  no  alteration.  The 
Doctor  had  Gershom  in,  and  talked  with  him  at  intervals.  He 
comforted  and  strengthened  him,  concerning  what  he  had  done. 
"  All  would  turn  out  for  the  best.  If  he — the  Doctor — could  have 
had  his  health,  and  worked  on  a  little  longer,  he  might  have  pre- 
ferred his  own  plan  ;  but  now  he  was  quite  content.  People  would 
not  wait  for  a  boy  to  go  and  get  his  learning.  Sickness  came  every 
day  ;  they  looked  for  a  ready-made  wisdom  to  step  in  ;  ready-made 
gray  hairs,  if  they  could  get  them." 

"  Put  your  whole  might  into  it,  now,  Gershom  ;  and  make  a  man 
of  yourself ;  think  of  your  mother  ;  think  of  your  God,  boy  !  " 

Between  Saturday  night  and  Sunday  morning  came  the  beginning 
of  what  they  had  feared.  The  Doctor  himself  had  felt  sure  of  it. 
A  relapse.  All  day  Sunday  the  good  man  struggled  painfully  with 
disease.  On  Monday,  the  word  went  down  for  Mr.  Gair  and  Say. 


The  Silent  Sin.  147 

God's  word  came  down  also  into  that  still,  sick-room,  calling  a 
soul  back  to  Himself. 

Before  Tuesday  night,  when  the  stage  came  in  at  the  Bridge  and 
Gershom  drove  to  meet  it,  all  was  over. 

It  had  been  a  slow,  painful  giving  way  of  nature.  A  laboring 
and  failing  breath,  hour  after  hour,  till  the  breath  went  forth  at  last, 
and  was  never  drawn  again.  They  sat  by  and  watched,  with 
grieved  hearts  and  seldom  speech. 

There  was  no  set  leave-taking.  There  was  no  need.  There  had 
hardly  ever  been  any  word,  that  either  could  remember,  of  the 
good  man  going  away  from  among  them  now,  that,  for  its  truth,  or 
kindliness,  or  cheer,  or  simple,  holy  trust,  might  not  fitly  have  been 
cherished  by  them  as  his  last. 

"  Think  of  your  mother.     Think  of  your  God,  boy  !" 

These  were  what  thrilled  solemnly  in  the  heart  of  Gershom 
Vorse,  as  nearly  the  last  he  spoke  to  him. 

They  sat  all  together  at  the  family  board  for  the  first  time  since 
the  Doctor's  illness  had  gathered  them  at  home,  at  that  still  break- 
fast on  the  Wednesday  morning.  The  first  coming  together  of  the 
household  in  its  old  routine,  after  a  blank  has  been  left  in  it.  How 
many  a  heart  has  felt  that  graveside  solemnity  ! 

"  It  " — the  funeral — was  to  be  on  Thursday.  Mr.  Gair  could  not 
leave  his  business  longer.  He  would  come  up  again  next  week, 
and  attend  to  anything  that  they  might  need  him  for.  But  just  now 
his  presence  was  imperatively  required  in  Selport. 

"  With  all  the  rest,"  Mr.  Gair  said,  in  that  subdued  tone  that 
people  use  when  they  begin  to  speak  of  any  outside  matter  in  a 
house  of  death,  "  there  has  been  a  sad  piece  of  work  on  board  the 
brig  since  she  came  in.  That  English  fellow,  Gershom — Ned 
Blackmere — was  arrested  Friday  morning  for  the  murder  of  hL; 
wife.  It's  in  the  paper  here,"  and  he  drew  out  a  Selport  Journal 
from  his  coat-pocket. 

Gershom  Vorse,  startled  out  of  thoughts  that  nothing  less  than 
a  shock  like  this  could  have  displaced,  gazed  for  an  instant  in  the 
speaker's  face,  as  unable  to  take  in  the  meaning  of  his  words,  then 
pushing  his  chair  round  suddenly,  and  almost  springing  from  it,  he 
exclaimed — 

"  He  never  did  it  in  the  world,  sir  !  "  After  another  moment's 
thought, — "  he  couldn't  have  done  it !  Why,  the  brig  only  got  in 
on  Thursday  evening,  and  he  was  on  board  all  night  with  me." 

"  All  night  ?  You  both  went  ashore,  though?  The  murder 
took  place,  they  say,  between  half  past  ten  and  eleven,  and  Black- 
mere  was  seen  there,  waiting  in  his  wife's  room,  before  she  came 
in.  The  best  we  can  get  at  for  him  is,  that  he  was  on  board  during 
the  forepart  of  the  night,  and  on  deck  for  some  time  towards  mid- 
night. Buxton's  men  can  testify  to  that  much,  but  they  can't  swear 
to  the  exact  time  he  came  on  board.  And  half  an  hour  would 
make  all  the  difference." 


148  The  Gayworthys. 

"  It  wasn't  fifteen  minutes,  sir,  after  the  clock  struck  ten,  whea 
he  came  back  on  board  !  " 

"  Can  you  swear  to  that,  Gershom  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  do  something  for  him,  then.  At  any  rate  you  ooght 
to  be  on  hand  week  after  next,  when  the  case  comes  up." 

No  wonder,  with  this  double  weight  of  thought  upon  him,  that 
Gershom  was  silent,  and  sought  to  be  alone  as  far  as  possible  all 
that  day.  In  all  this  time,  beyond  the  barest  greeting  at  first 
seeing  her,  he  had  held  no  communication  with  Mrs.  Gair.  The 
circumstances  under  which  they  met  made  such  avoidance  easy. 
There  had  been  little  talk  between  any  in  that  sad  house,  through- 
out those  hours  of  watching  and  of  grief. 

Mrs.  Vorse  was  busy  with  necessary  cares.  Miss  Millett,  from 
the  Bridge,  was  up-stairs  with  the  other  sisters,  "  making  mourn- 
ing." Gershom  must  get  out  of  the  way  of  all  this.  He  could  not 
have  his  mother  to  himself.  He  spent  nearly  all  his  time  in  the 
bay  of  the  old  barn,  lying  there  alone  in  the  hay,  in  the  warm 
south  window,  where  he  had  used  to  betake  himself  in  the  happy 
days  that  seemed  already  so  long  ago,  when  he  was  in  heart  and 
truth  but  a  boy,  dreaming  boy-dreams  of  the  world  and  of  finding 
his  way  out  into  it ;  feeling  now  thrust  out,  with  the  door  of  his 
youth  shut  to  suddenly  behind  him. 

It  all  revolved  itself  over  and  over  in  his  mind  as  he  lay  here. 
This  terrible  change  ;  this  loss  that  made  him,  for  the  first  time, 
absolutely  fatherless ;  the  thought  of  what  he  should  do  with  his 
mother  ;  that  she  must  not  stay  here  now  ;  that  he  would  take  her 
away,  somewhere,  and  have  her  all  for  his  own, — his  own  care,  his 
one  comfort.  Of  Aunt  Jane,  that  he  could  never,  would  never, 
have  aught  to  do  with  her  again.  The  guilt  of  his  grandfather's 
death,  if  it  lay  at  any  human  door,  lay  at  hers.  Gershom  had  too 
much  of  his  mother's  clear,  discerning  justice  not  to  see  this,  and 
cease  reproaching  himself  weakly  or  unduly.  He  knew  he  would 
have  come,  laying  aside  all  plan  and  preference  of  his  own,  at  that 
summons  which  she  had  withheld  from  him.  He  was  indignant, 
to  the  very  depths  of  his  nature,  at  this  wrong  that  she  had  done 
them  all ;  but  he  laid  the  wrong  where  it  belonged.  He  would 
torture  himself  no  more  with  self-upbraiding.  He  would  take  every 
loving,  generous  word  that  his  grandfather  had  said,  home  into 
his  heart  and  let  it  comfort  him.  Between  them  there  had  been 
truth  and  peace  to  the  last.  Between  them  there  should  only  lie  a 
peaceful  memory. 

He  said  all  this  to  himself,  not  for  self-solace  only,  but  for 
honesty  and  justice.  Yet  he  had  to  say  it  again  and  again.  The 
cruel  bitterness  would  come  up.  If  he  had  only  done  his  grand- 
father's bidding !  If  he  had  only  never  let  that  sea- fever  get 
possession  of  him  !  If  he  had  only  been  determined,  even,  not  to 
go  without  a  coming  home  first !  He  might  be  strong  enough  and 


The  Silent  Sin.  149 

just  enough  not  to  torment  himself  morbidly,  but  this  dreg  of  re- 
proach would  always  lie  in  his  conscience.  Jane  Gair  had  put  this 
unsilenced,  haunting  "  If  "  of  fruitless  regret  into  a  young  life  that 
had  never  known  it  before ;  that  henceforth  should  never  be  able 
wholly  to  cast  it  out. 

And  Ned  Blackmere  !  This  story,  so  sudden  and  awful,  that  he 
could  hardly  credit  or  conceive  it  clearly  ;  this  horrible  doubt,  this 
deadly  suspicion,  this  mortal  danger  that  hung  over  the  man, 
who,  in  those  very  hours  when  it  had  been  bearing  down  upon 
him,  had  been  sleeping  at  his  side,  his  sole  companion  !  This  ter- 
rible investigation  with  which  Gershom,  by  the  evidence  that  he 
could  bring,  would  have  to  do  !  Truly,  tremendous  realities  had 
swooped  down,  all  at  once,  among  his  boy  dreams,  and  scattered 
them  forever ! 

Say  came  and  found  him,  at  last.  She  had  guessed  where  he 
might  be,  but  she  had  not  dared  to  come,  till  the  red,  level  light  of 
the  setting  sun  streamed  over  the  snow,  and  the  tea-table  stood 
ready,  and  she  had  heard  Aunt  Prue  asking  for  him.  Then  she 
put  on  her  India-rubber  shoes  and  flung  her  little  Scotch  shawl 
over  her  head,  and  came  to  fetch  him. 

"Gershie!"  she  called,  timidly,  at  the  foot  of  the  granary 
stairs. 

"  Well  ?  "  answered  Gershom,  from  above,  in  the  hay. 

"  Tea's  ready,  and  Aunt  Prue  wants  you." 

No  answer. 

"  May  I  come  up  ?  " 

"  I'm  coming  down  in  a  minute." 

Not  permission,  clearly.  Neither  dismissal,  quite.  Say  gath- 
ered the  little  shawl  tighter  across  her  shoulders,  and  sat  down  on 
the  lowest  step.  In  a  minute  Gershom  came. 

It  was  a  pale,  sad  little  face — pale  with  the  winter  chill,  sad  with 
a  look  of  some  soul-summer  gone  out  of  it  already — that  turned 
itself  up  to  his  as  he  came  down.  There  were  tears,  too,  standing 
in  the  patient  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Gershie ! "  she  said  touchingly,  putting  out  her  hand  for 
his, — "  the  old,  good  times  are  all  gone.  I  don't  think  there's  ever 
going  to  be  any  Hilbury  any  more  ! " 

— "  Something  turns  up  and  sets  'em  adrift,  and  what  becomes 
of  your  home  then  ?  " 

Those  bitter  words  of  Old  Barnacle  repeated  themselves  to 
Gershom's  thought,  and  echoed  the  plaint  of  the  child. 

"  For  me — I  suppose  not,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  go  out  into 
the  world  and  get  my  living.  I  can't  be  a  boy  any  longer. 
I'm  a  man,  Say.  But  you'll  come  here,  summers,  the  same  as 
ever.  Aunt  Joanna  and  Aunt  Rebecca  will  be  here.  You'll 
come." 

"  No,  I  shan't,"  said  Say,  in  a  voice  that  trembled.  "  Mother 
won't  want  to  come  here,  always,  now.  She  said  so  this  morning, 


150  The  Gayworthys. 

when  Aunt  Rebecca  spoke  about  the  summer.  I  know  she  didn't 
want  much  to  come,  last  time.  She'll  go  to  the  Springs,  now ;  or 
the  sea-shore.  That's  what  she  wanted ;  only  she  said  grandpa 
would  be  disappointed.  And  they  said  something  else ;  about 
there  being  no  knowing  what  would  be  done,  now,  with  the  farm. 
— And  besides,"  the  words  quivered  out  painfully, — "  it  wouldn't 
be  anything  to  come  if  you  weren't  here." 

Gershom  had  been  the  center  of  all  Say's  joys,  in  all  the  summer 
times  that  she  could  remember.  Now,  she  was  losing  him.  It  is 
one  of  the  gulfs  that  open  at  our  feet  in  life,  when  one  who  has 
been  dear  and  close — a  sharer  in  the  same  thoughts,  and  wishes, 
and  pleasures— springs  suddenly  as  it  seems  away  from  our  side, 
out  of  our  sphere  into  another,  that  lies  ready  for  him  and  not  for 
us.  When  the  brother  goes  out  of  his  childhood  and  his  home 
into  manhood  and  the  wide  world, — leaving  the  sister  behind  in 
her  home  and  her  childhood  still,  whence  the  light  of  both  has 
vanished.  When,  of  the  sisters  who  have  slept  and  played  and 
learned  together,  one  goes  forth  to  new  loves  and  duties,  and  com- 
panionships, and  the  other  stays  behind  in  the  same  accustomed 
place,  that  yet  can  never  be  the  same  again.  Ah  !  it  is  not  the 
grave  only  which  yawns  between  lives  whereof  the  one  is  taken — 
on — up  ; — the  other  left,  drearily  waiting,  in  a  world  whose  mean- 
ing is  all  changed ;  whose  very  vital  springs  seem  deadened. 

Say  saw  this  fissure  widening  at  her  feet,  between  herself  and 
Gershom  Vorse  ;  and  her  child-heart  found  it  hard  to  bear. 

"  I've  got  to  be  a  little  girl  ever  so  many  years  more  !  "  she  said, 
piteously. 

Gershom  would  have  been  tender  with  her,  but  that  he  hardened 
so  against  her  mother. 

"You'll  grow  fast  enough,"  he  said.  "And  you'll  forget  all 
about  Hilbury.  You'll  go  to  the  Springs  and  the  sea-shore  ;  and 
by  and  by  you'll  like  that  best." 

They  were  walking  up,  slowly,  along  the  drive.  Say  stopped, 
and  let  fall  Gershom's  hand,  and  sat  herself  down  on  the  rim  of 
the  great  trough,  determinedly,  as  if  she  would  not  take  another 
step  in  that  life  that  was  leading  her  on,  away  from  all  that  she 
loved  best. 

"  I  never  shall,  in  all  the  world  !  "  she  cried,  passionately.  "  I 
wish  I  could  stop  everything  and  everybody,  right  here,  and  not  let 
'em  grow  any  older,  or  do  anything  else  !  " 

"  You  can't,"  said  Gershom,  after  a  pause,  in  a  quiet  tone,  and 
waiting,  as  expecting  her  to  turn  rational  again  directly.  "  We've 
got  to  keep  going  on.  And  you've  got  to  get  up  now  and  go  in 
to  tea." 

He  set  the  palpable  necessity  of  things  square  before  her,  as  it 
is  the  way  of  man  to  do,  when  woman's  nature  is  all  in  a  white  foam 
of  tempestuous  revolt  against  it. 

Then   she  burst  into  tears.     Gershom  walked  on,  slowly.     He 


The  Silent  Sin.  151 

knew  not  how  to  deal  with  this,  and  so  he  let  it  alone.  Ah,  if  he 
had  known  it,  that  was  hard  dealing ! 

Say  flung  her  shawl  suddenly  over  head  and  face,  and  rushed 
blindly  on,  up  and  into  the  house.  She  vanished  up  the  end  stair- 
case, and  hid  herself  away  in  the  old  clothes-room. 

Rebecca  went  to  look  for  her  presently,  and  found  her  there  in 
an  abandonment  of  tears.  She  sat  down  by  her,  on  the  pile  of 
quilts  and  pillows,  and  put  her  arm  around  her  gently,  and  waited 
till  she  should  look  up.  Say,  though  she  never  moved,  knew  by 
the  soft  touch  who  it  was.  So  she  sobbed  on  :  but  there  came  a 
tenderer  sound  into  the  grief,  at  first  so  bitter  and  so  sharp.  By 
and  by  she  rested  ;  only  a  long-drawn  quiver  now  and  then. 
Rebecca  drew  her  up  against  her  shoulder,  saying,  in  her  old 
way, — as  she  had  said  years  ago,  when  she  found  the  child  sitting 
grieving  in  disgrace  upon  the  doorstone, — "  What  is  it,  Say  ?  " 

"  It's  all  so  hard !  "  was  Say's  strangely  comprehensive 
answer. 

"  What,  Say  ?  "  asked  the  same  soft  tone. 

"  Things  that  happen.  People  go  off — and  they  don't  care  ;  and 
you've  got  to  keep  on ;  and  you  can't  stop  anything." 

Only  a  broken  thread  in  her  own  life,  that  Rebecca  could  lay  her 
thought  back  upon,  could  have  given  her  a  clew  to  apprehend  this 
first  dreariness  of  feeling  that  uttered  itself  in  Say's  incoherent 
words. 

"  Yes.  Things  are  hard,  sometimes.  And  we  must  live  on, 
and  bear  God's  will.  Because,  He  makes  a  plan  for  us  ;  and  there 
will  be  always  something  coming ;  we  can't  tell,  day  by  day,  what 
it  may  be,  only  He  never  forgets  us,  or  leaves  anything  out ;  and 
by  and  by " 

"  By  and  by — what  ?"  asked  Say,  after  some  seconds  pause. 

"  Shall  I  show  you,  Say?"  There  was  a  calm,  holy  light  on 
Aunt  Rebecca's  face,  as  she  stood  up,  and  held  her  hand  out  to 
the  child. 

Say  had  a  feeling  of  what  it  was  that  she  would  show  her.  She 
was  not  afraid.  She  got  up,  and  gave  her  hand,  and  let  herself  be 
led  away.  Across  the  great  kitchen  chamber, — Rebecca  taking 
up  the  candle  she  had  left  there, — and  along  the  entry  beyond, 
to  where  a  door  opened  into  the  room  Say  had  not  entered  since 
she  came. 

Rebecca  set  the  light  upon  the  mantel,  and  took  her  to  the  bed- 
side. She  drew  back  a  closed  curtain,  and  laid  off  a  linen  hand- 
kerchief from  the  pillow. 

There  was  none  of  the  grim  rigidness  about  the  bed  or  room 
that  told  of  death,  and  death  only.  Rebecca  would  not  have  the 
form  so  tenderly  cared  for  but  a  few  hours  before,  left  here,  stark 
in  the  winter's  cold,  with  only  the  grave-robing  and  the  ghastly 
white  sheet  for  covering.  There  was  a  fresh,  soft  coverlet  spread 
OTer  all,  and  the  sheet  turned  back  upon  it,  as  a  couch  might  have 


152  The  Gayworthys. 

been  made  up  for  slumber.  The  drapery  hung  close  about  the 
foot. 

Say  saw  the  same  dear  face, — the  white  hair  softly  floating  back 
from  the  temples ;  a  beautiful  quietness  upon  it, — and  that  was  all. 

"  He  has  lived  seventy-eight  years,  Say.  Seven  times  as  long  as 
you.  He  was  glad  with  all  God  gave  him,  and  he  bore  every 
trouble  that  He  sent.  Now,  this  is  what  has  come.  A  beautiful 
rest ;  and  a  waking  that  we  cannot  know  of,  into  great  joy. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  old  dream  you  used  to  tell  me  of  ? 
When  you  used  to  think  you  had  got  lost,  away  from  home,  and  it 
grew  dark  and  cold ;  and  you  were  all  alone  on  the  roadside,  in  a 
strange  place  ?  And  how  you  would  think  to  yourself,  then,  in 
your  dream, — '  I  will  just  lie  down,  right  here,  and  go  to  sleep ; 
and  I  shall  wake  in  my  own  home  again  ?  '  That  is  the  way  God 
takes  us  home  to  Him.  He  sends  us  such  a  sleep  as  this  ;  and  out 
of  it  we  wake,  presently,  in  heaven  !  It  will  all  be  right  there, 
Say  !  It  is  all  working  for  it,  here." 

Say  held  her  aunt's  hand  tight ;  and  spoke  not  a  word  ;  but  her 
face  changed  from  its  troubled  look  to  a  still  brightness,  like  the 
faces — the  living  and  the  dead — she  looked  upon.  And  so  they 
drew  the  curtains  again,  and  took  the  candle  and  went  out 
together. 

"  Only,"  said  Say,  timidly,  stopping  presently,  when  they  had  got 
away  into  another  room,  and  letting  the  words  come  with  a  long 
sigh, — "  I  should  like  to  go  to  heaven  from  Hilbury,  too." 

Rebecca  sighed  softly,  also,  and  did  not  speak.  She  knew  how 
gladly  many  a  heart  would  choose  so  its  place  on  earth  to  go  to 
heaven  from.  She  thought  how  much  might  lie  for  the  child  in 
the  years  between  these  homes. 

But  Say  was  comforted. 

Prue  came  to  Mr.  Gair,  on  Thursday,  when  the  funeral  was 
over. 

"  Will  you  keep  these  till  you  come  back,  or  will  you  look,  to- 
night, for  any  papers  that  he  may  have  left  ?  "  She  gave  him,  as 
she  spoke,  the  Doctor's  keys. 

There  was  only  the  little  room  to  look  in.  The  merchant's  time 
was  valuable.  He  had  better  do,  at  once,  perhaps,  in  these  few 
hours  when  he  could  do  nothing  else,  what  might  take  him  a  half- 
day  to  do,  on  his  return. 

$o  he  took  the  keys,  and  turned  toward  the  study. 

"  Call  the  others,  and  come  in  here  with  me,  all  of  you,"  he  said. 

Jane  Gair  had  it  all  upon  her  conscience,  now.  Now,  Satan 
came  and  stood  straight  before  her,  saying,  Choose ! 

Of  two  direct  ways  ?  No.  The  devil  never  does  that.  There 
was  only  one  direct  way  ;  to  tell  all  she  knew,  if  need  be  ;  to  see, 
at  any  rate,  that  hidden  paper  brought  to  light.  But  there  was  a 
way,  seemingly  indirect  ;  we  never  get  a  look  from  end  to  end, 
right  down  the  evil  path.  She  would  wait,  a  few  moments,  at 


The  Silent  Sin.  153 

least ;  there  might  be  something  else  to  indicate ;  it  might  be, 
after  all,  that  her  father  had  changed  his  mind,  and  destroyed  the 
writing.  She  knew  nothing  to  the  contrary.  She  would  cling, 
still,  to  her  "  expectant  "  system.  Ah  !  this  was  the  very  way  the 
devil  wanted  her  to  choose. 

Doctor  Gayworthy  had  not  died  without  a  sign.  He  had  im- 
plied, in  his  short  talks  with  Prue  and  Gershom,  that  he  had  cared 
for  them  ;  how,  or  how  far,  they  had  no  idea.  Gershom,  certainly, 
expected  little. 

"  Think  of  your  mother ! "  his  grandfather  had  said  ;  he  had 
said,  also,  "  Think  of  your  God  !  "  For  aim  and  motive ;  for  holy 
incitement  and  strength.  But  the  boy  had  taken  his  mother,  as 
his  legacy,  from  the  old  man's  hands ;  to  care  for  her, — to  labor 
for  her.  That  was  his  one  resolve  now.  He  had  little  thought  of 
possible  money  or  land. 

To  one  other  the  Doctor  had  spoken.  As  Jane  sat  by  him  in 
her  evening  watch,  on  Saturday,  he  had  called  her  suddenly, — 
"  Daughter !  "  and  Jane  had  bent  to  catch  his  words. 

"  I  have  been  easier  to-day ;  but  I  am  not  deceived  :  to-morrow 
I  may  be  worse  again.  If  I  die,  Jane, — when  I  die,  I  think  my 
affairs  will  all  be  found  in  order.  There  will  be  enough  for  all,— 
for  all." 

"  Don't,  father  ! "  Jane  had  cried,  partly  from  a  genuine  shrinking 
impulse, — for  she  had  a  daughter's  natural  love  somewhere  in  that 
selfish  heart  of  hers, — and  partly  from  a  dread  of  knowledge  too 
solemnly  imparted. 

"  I  won't  distress  you,  child.  When  the  time  comes,  you  will 
find  it  written.  I  put  it  in." — His  cough  interrupted  him, — a  long 
paroxysm  ;  and  he  lay  back  exhausted  after  it. 

Jane  gave  him  his  gum-arabic  water,  and  wiped  his  lips,  and  the 
moisture  from  his  pale  forehead,  and  then  busied  herself  across 
the  room,  restoring  the  glass  to  its  place,  examining  what  was  left 
in  the  little  pitcher  from  which  she  had  filled  it,  and  rearranging 
spoons  and  vials. 

Then  she  turned  toward  the  bed  again.  He  raised  his  finger 
for  her  to  come  near;  he  pointed  toward  his  dressing-glass,  be- 
side which  hung  his  keys,  which  Prue  had  put  upon  a  nail  there. 
It  was  not  possible  to  misunderstand.  Jane  brought  them.  Her 
father  did  not  speak,  he  had  hardly  strength  for  that ;  and  he 
feared  to  provoke  the  cough  again  :  but  he  held  the  bunch  in  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  selected  one,  laying  his  finger  on  it.  and 
looking  up,  while  his  lips  and  tongue  just  formed  the  syllable 
"  There." 

And  Jane  bent  her  head  assentingly. 

After  that  he  seemed  to  trouble  himself  no  further.  He  had 
left  the  clew  to  all  in  the  hands  of  his  eldest  child. 

And  up  to  this  moment,  Jane  had  held  her  peace. 

"  Do  any  of  you  know — has  the  Doctor  spoken  to  any  of  you — 


1 54  The  Gayworthys. 

of  any  will  or  writing  ?  "  Mr.  Gair  asked  this  after  they  had  all 
come  into  the  little  room  together. 

Jane  waited  a  half  minute  or  more.  Nobody  spoke.  Then  she 
moved  to  her  husband's  side,  and  answered  him. 

"He  began  to  say  something  to  me  last  Saturday  evening;  but  a 
fit  of  coughing  came  on.  He  only  said  we  should  find  it  written. 
And  he  pointed  to  his  keys,  and  I  brought  them  ;  and  he  laid  his 
finger  on  this."  She  took  the  keys  from  Reuben's  hand  as  she 
spoke,  and  separated  that  belonging  to  the  panel  cupboard. 

Had  she  not  fulfilled  her  trust  ?  I  believe  she  thought  so.  She 
sat  down,  and  waited  with  the  rest  for  whatever  should  be  found. 

And  in  this  very  moment  her  punishment  began.  Her  unlawful 
knowledge  tormented  her.  She  had  told  truly  all  she  had  been 
supposed  to  know.  They  might  search, — they  might  find  all. 

But  if  not  ?  Then  it  would  have  been  better  that  she  had  never 
looked  or  listened.  Why  had  she  looked  or  listened  ?  Only  to 
lay  this  upon  herself.  She  must  publish  herself  a  spy,  or  be  a 
guiltier  thing.  She  almost  wished  they  might  discover  all.  If  she 
only  had  never  meddled  foolishly,  all  might  have  gone  well.  She 
could  wish  that  this  had  been ;  she  could  have  been  satisfied  to 
kill  this  memory  of  hers,  if  that  were  possible,  and  that  they  should 
all  together,  ignorantly,  defraud  the  widow  and  her  son.  With  a 
secret  vehemence  of  regret,  she  deplored  that  this  should  not  have 
happened.  Her  heart-desire  was  evil,  her  conscience-scruple  was 
only  weak. 

Reuben  Gair  stood  upon  the  very  high-backed  mahogany  chair 
whereon  his  wife  had  climbed  that  summer  afternoon  last  year, 
and  rolled  the  panel  back. 

"  Why,  mother  !  "  whispered  Say,  "  that's  the  earthquake  ! " 

Jane  Gair  clutched  her  child's  hand,  with  a  grasp  that  pained 
her,  enforcing  silence.  Say  was  ashamed.  It  had  not  been  a 
proper  time  to  speak  so.  This  was  what  she  thought.  Years 
afterward,  she  remembered  it  with  a  different  thought, — a  hotter 
shame. 

Prudence  Vorse  was  reminded  of  the  day  when  she  had  found 
her  stepsister  searching  there.  She  looked  straight  over  at  Jane, 
suddenly,  with  her  strong,  discerning  eye.  The  color  mounted 
visibly  in  Jane's  face.  Prue  had  her  own  thought,  instantly. 
"  Whatever  is  there,  she  knows  it." 

Mr.  Gair  took  down  the  leather  wallet  and  the  letter-case. 

"  It  must  be  in  one  of  these,"  said  he.  And  he  came  down,  and 
laid  them  on  the  table,  and,  drawing  up  a  chair,  sat  down  to  open 
them,  deliberately. 

What  could  Jane  do  ?  She  had  placed  herself  quite  upon  the 
other  side  the  room.  She  could  not  rush  and  seize  it  from  his 
hand,  and  with  her  last  impulse  of  truth,  disclose  its  secret  con- 
tents. If  it  could  have  been  done  naturally,  and  by  apparent  ac- 
cident, she  thought  at  that  instant  that  she  would  have  revealed  it 


The  Silent  Sin.  155 

all.  But  Satan  had  her,  and  he  held  her  fast ;  she  waited  still.  It 
must  be  all  chance,  now,  whether  Reuben  found  it  or  not.  Did 
she  forget  the  little,  little  pressure  of  her  finger,  that  day  last  year  ? 
It  would  not  now  be  quite  so  easily  found  as  then.  It  was  thrust, 
smoothly  and  tightly  down,  along  the  very  bottom  of  the  pocket. 
It  would  scarcely  even  crackle,  now. 

But  it  might  be  nothing  after  all.  How  should  she  know  what 
possibly  in  all  those  years  wherein  the  old  case  had  been  used,  had 
found  its  way  there,  and  lain  perhaps  a  lifetime  ? 

It  was  not  her  business  to  imagine.  Her  father  could  well  care 
for  his  affairs.  There  was  the  one  paper,  carefully  preserved. 
The  other  had,  most  likely,  been  removed,  destroyed.  He  might 
have  written  and  revoked  a  dozen  such. 

She  kept  saying  this,  within  herself,  over  and  over.  She  looked 
anxious  and  distraite. 

Prue  saw  the  look.  "  There's  something  on  her  mind,"  thought 
she.  "  Something  she's  keeping  back."  Prue  only  thought  of 
something  more  the  Doctor  might  have  said.  She  never  dreamed 
of  any  other  concealment. 

Nobody  thought  of  anything  further  to  be  looked  for,  when  Mr. 
Gair  drew  from  the  under  pocket  of  the  letter-case  the  folded 
packet.  The  upper  half  was  evidently  filled  with  old,  very  old 
correspondence. 

"  This  is  it,"  said  he.  and  read  aloud  the  superscription. 

"My  last  Will  and  Testament.     Jan.  I,  183 — ." 

"  That  was  before  Ben  died,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Just  after,"  replied  Jane,  quickly.  "  Ben  died  in  November, 
that  same  winter." 

Mr.  Gair  unfolded  it,  and  glanced  over  the  pages.  Then  he 
began  to  read. 

The  will  provided  for  them  all.  Jane  soothed  her  conscience 
with  this.  There  was  no  obvious  discrepancy  here  with  what  her 
father  had  said. 

"  There  is  enough  for  all, — for  all."  That  emphatic  repeti- 
tion had  rung  admonishingly  in  her  ears ;  and  if  this  instrument 
had  done  absolutely  nothing  for  Prudence  and  her  boy,  there 
\vould  have  been  an  obstinate  rough  spot  in  her  conscience  that 
the  smooth  unction  of  false  plausibility  would  have  failed  to  cover. 
As  it  was,  she  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  breathed  freer.  There 
was  no  reason  to  force  her  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  this 
could  not  be  all.  She  would  not  suppose  it.  She  was  very  glad 
she  had  never  looked  any  further  ! 

By  this  time  she  had  well-nigh  persuaded  herself  that  she  was 
as  utterly  ignorant,  and  innocent  therefore,  as  any  of  the  rest. 

There  was  property  to  the  amount  of  upwards  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars. 

The  moneys  and  stocks — after  certain  legacies — were  to  be 
equally  divided  between  his  children.  Certain  real  estate,  in 


156  The  Gayworthys. 

Winthorpe  and  Selport,  was  apportioned,— a  share  to  each.  The 
farm  and  homestead  were  to  remain  for  the  life  use  of  any  child 
or  children  who  should  continue  unmarried  and  elect  to  live  there. 
Then  they  were  to  go  to  the  eldest  direct  male  heir  ;  failing  males, 
to  the  eldest  female. 

Of  the  legacies,  the  chief  was  five  thousand  dollars  in  bark 
stock  to  "  Prudence  Vorse,  the  eldest  child  of  my  late  dear  wife, 
Rachel."  There  were  live  hundred  dollars  to  Serena  Brown ;  or, 
she  not  surviving,  to  her  daughter  Huldah. 

That  was  all.  The  paper  was  refolded,  and  laid  back ;  not 
replaced  in  the  pocket,  only  between  the  covers  ;  and  Mr.  Gair 
wound  the  green  ribbon  around  the  whole,  and  tied  it  fast. 

Nothing  to  be  done,  at  this  moment.   Certainly  nothing  to  be  said. 

They  all  rose,  silently,  as  Mr.  Gair  put  up  the  case  into  the  cup- 
board, rolled  the  door  back,  and  took  out  the  key. 

Prudence  looked  once  more  at  Jane.  The  face  she  scrutinized 
was  still  hardly  wholly  composed.  "  She  knows  more  yet.  She 
hasn't  told  it  all.  There's  something  lies  between  her  and  the 
dead.  It  must  lie  then."  She  did  not  doubt  it  was  some  verbal 
request  in  behalf  of  Gershom  ;  something  for  the  heirs  to  do,  that 
the  old  man  knew  his  will,  drawn  up  so  many  years  ago,  before 
the  boy  came  home  to  him  and  drew  into  his  love,  had  not  con- 
templated. For  herself,  it  never  crossed  her  mind  that  there 
might  be  more  intended.  She  had  had,  all  this  time,  so  much  ! 
His  legacy  to  her  was  generous  ;  more,  by  its  whole  amount,  than 
she  could  have  claim  to  look  for. 

The  time  for  speaking  was  past.  Jane  stood  committed  to  her 
sin.  And  yet  she  had  "  clone  nothing." 

The  next  day  she  went  down  to  Selport,  with  her  husband  and 
Say,  to  attend  to  her  own  household,  and  fit  herself  out  with 
"  decent  black."  The  bonnet,  constructed  by  Miss  Millett,  she 
would  send  back,  she  said,  for  the  first  poor  soul  in  Hilbury  who 
might  have  need  of  such  a  thing. 

The  will  and  the  probable  plans  of  the  family  were  discussed 
in  Hilbury,  as  such  matters  are.  Of  course  there  were  many  who 
"  would  have  done  differently  in  his  place." 

One  piece  of  superhuman  wisdom  is  always  expected  of  a  man  ; 
the  absolutely  just  and  judicious  disposition  of  his  property.  One 
thing  is,  of  necessity,  closely  investigated,  as  soon  as  he  is  dead, 
and  the  seal  set  so  forever  on  his  works,  complete  or  incomplete,  as 
he  may  leave  them.  And  if  this  prove  to  have  been  in  any  way 
neglected  or  procrastinated,  or  left  imperfect,  it  is  so  strange, — 
so  unaccountable !  Of  all  the  hundreds  of  abortive  beginnings 
and  intents  which  the  most  methodical  life  may  have  numbered, 
this  only  comes  out  for  posthumous  criticism  and  wonder,  that  it 
was  not  done,  or  better  done.  The  testator,  one  would  suppose, 
ought  to  have  shown  forth  in  this  word  that  should  be  spoken  as 
from  beyond  the  grave,  an  unearthly  perspicacity  and  foresight. 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  157 

"  To  him  that  hath  "  should  never  "  be  given  " — overmuch. 
There  should  have  been  a  prescience,  we  should  almost  think,  of 
who  should  survive  longest  and  require  most ;  and  apportionment 
have  been  made  accordingly.  The  Hilbury  people  wondered  that 
Jane  Gair,  "  rolling  in  money," — her  husband  making  it  "  hand 
over  hand," — should  have  "  come  in  for  just  as  much  as  any  of 
the  others."  They  wondered  that  "  Widder  Vorse  hadn't  got 
more  ;  she'd  been  perfectly  arduous  in  her  attention  to  the  old 
man,  allers."  They  wondered  that  "  there'd  never  been  a  cod- 
icil, nor  nothing,  to  that  air  old  will,  to  fix  things  a  little  mite 
straighter ; "  that  Gershom  Vorse,  whom  the  Doctor  always  "  sot 
by  so,"  hadn't  been  named  at  all.  "  He'd  cut  himself  out,  though, 
most  likely,  by  going  off  as  he  did." 

So  they  talked  it  over,  and  settled  the  "  whys  "  as  well  as  they 
could ;  meantime,  the  young  sisters  were  seen  at  church  on  Sun- 
days in  the  dresses  and  bonnets  Miss  Millett  had  made  for  them, 
and  grieved  bitterly,  in  the  quiet  of  their  home,  for  the  old  man 
gone  ;  and  Mrs.  Jane  Gair  busied  herself  among  crapes  and  bom- 
bazines, in  Selport,  and  took  off,  so,  the  first  keen  edge  of  her 
sorrow. 

"  If  the  girls  want  me,"  said  Prudence,  talking  with  her  son, 
"  I  shall  stay  here  till  spring  with  them,  and  see  'em  settled  ;  and 
then  if  Jaazaniah  keeps  on  failin',  I  shall  offer  to  go  and  stop  with 
Wealthy  Hoogs.  She  hasn't  got  a  being  in  the  world  to  help  her." 

"  That's  just  what  I  should  like  best  for  you,  mother,"  answered 
Gershom. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

GUILTY   OR  NOT   GUILTY. 

NED  BLACKMERE  was  in  Selport  jail  waiting  for  the  court  to 
meet,  when  his  case  should  come  up  before  the  grand  jury  for  in- 
dictment or  discharge. 

None  but  a  sailor  could  conceive  the  misery  of  this  confinement 
to  him.  Accustomed  to  a  free  ocean  life, — to  the  hourly  active 
use  of  his  limbs, — his  cell  cramped  him,  the  jail  air  stifled  him. 
"  I  hope,  if  they  do  anything  with  me,  they'll  finish  up  the  job 
and  hang  me  ! "  The  poor  fellow  feared  most  conviction  of  a 
secondary  degree  of  crime,  and  condemnation  to  a  prison  life. 

"They'll  have  a  Bedlamite  in  charge  if  they  do  that,"  he  said. 

Except  for  this  he  had  neither  fear  nor  hope.  He  would  as  soon 
die  as  live.  There  was  nothing  in  all  the  great  world  for  him  ex- 
cept his  pipe.  He  smoked  and  brooded  just  as  he  always  had 
done  ;  only  the  people  round  him  did  not  know  anything  about 
that.  They  said  of  him  in  the  papers  that  he  was  utterly  hardened 
and  unconcerned. 


158  The  Gayworthys. 

A  clergyman  came  to  see  him,  and  spoke  to  him  solemnly  of  his 
situation. 

"  Do  you  think  I  need  you  to  come  and  tell  me  I'm  in  a  fix  ?  " 
said  the  sailor,  curtly. 

The  good  man,  with  the  best  intent,  warned  him  against  hard- 
ness of  heart,  and  reminded  him  that  he  might  shortly  be  sent  to 
meet  his  God. 

Ned  Blackmere  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  "  I'd  like  to 
see  that  Person.  I'd  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  Him  if  I  once 
found  Him." 

The  words  were  blasphemous,  perhaps ;  God's  minister  was 
shocked  ;  it  may  be  God  saw  deeper,  and  was  more  pitiful  than 
angry. 

The  clergyman  stood,  and  uttered  a  prayer ;  he  would  say  no 
more  to  this  desperate  sinner ;  he  would  only  plead  with  Heaven 
for  him. 

Blackmere  remained  motionless  and  silent,  holding  the  pipe  in 
his  fingers  that  otherwise  he  would,  doubtless,  have  replaced. 
When  the  petition  was  ended,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  If  you  meant  all  that,  I  thank  you,  whether  Anybody  heard 
it  or  not." 

The  minister  took  the  offered  hand.  "  Lord  !  help  this  soul  that 
Thou  hast  made,  to  find  Thee !  "  And  so  he  went  away. 

That  same  night  Ned  Blackmere  had  another  visitor. 

It  was  just  at  dusk  when  he  heard  the  clank  of  the  ponderous 
lock,  and  the  door  swung  open,  and  Gershom  Vorse  came  in  with 
the  turnkey. 

Blackmere  did  not  look  up  at  first.     The  young  man  spoke. 

"  I'm  here,  shipmate  !  " 

Then  a  sudden  quiver  ran  over  the  strong  man's  shoulders,  be- 
fore he  got  up,  and  came  round. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  I  had  a  friend  in  the  world  that  would  do  as 
much  as  this,"  he  said.  There  was  a  quiver  in  the  rough  voice, 
too.  The  heart  had  not  been  trampled  out  of  him  quite,  after  all. 

"You  see,  I  know  that  you  are  here  for  nothing,"  said  Gershom, 
in  a  strong,  cheery  way,  straight  out.  "  And  I'm  come  to  tell 
them  so. " 

"  You  really  didn't  think  it  of  me  ?  "  asked  Ned  Blackmere,  with 
a  kind  of  incredulous  earnestness. 

"  I  didn't  think  it,  nor  I  shouldn't  think  it,  anyhow;  but  besides 
that,  I  know  better." 

"  How  can  you  know  anything  about  it  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd 
got  a  she-devil  for  a  wife  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  hell  I  was 
coming  back  to  ?  Ain't  them  the  sort  of  circumstances  that 
murder  comes  of  ?  I  went  back  there  and  waited  for  her,  alone, 
at  night.  Biddy  Flynn  saw  me  there.  She  peeped  in  at  me 
through  a  hole,  as  she  would  at  a  wild  beast.  She  heard  me  curse 
the  home  that  woman  made  for  me.  She  heard  me  say  it  stood 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  159 

between  me  and  anything  better  on  God's  earth.  Ain't  that 
enough  to  prove  it  on  a  man  ?  Three  hours  afterwards,  they 
found  her  there,  with  her  head  smashed  in  ;  hit  from  behind  with 
a  club.  How  do  you  know  I  didn't  strike  her  down  ?  "  He  asked 
this  almost  fiercely. 

The  stripling  answered  him  with  the  strong,  sure  word  of  a  man. 

"  Because,  Ned,  you'd  borne  it  all  those  years,  not  to  do  this  at 
last.  And  if  you'd  struck  her  down  in  anger,  it  wouldn't  have 
been  from  behind,  in  the  dark.  That's  enough  for  me.  But  I've 
got  something  more  for  them.  Wasn't  I  lying  in  my  berth  when 
you  came  aboard  the  brig  and  down  into  the  forecastle,  and  lit 
your  pipe  ?  Didn't  I  hear  you  say, — thinking  me  asleep, — '  So  he 
wasn't  wanted  no  more  than  I  ;  he'll  find  'em  out  by  and  by '  ? 
Didn't  I  lie  and  think  of  that — being  wide  awake  as  I  was — for 
hours  after,  and  hear  you  walking  all  the  time  overhead, — back 
and  forth,  back  and  forth  ?  Don't  I  know  the  clock  hadn't  struck 
ten,  fifteen  minutes  when  you  first  came  down  ?  And  didn't  it  go 
one  just  as  you  turned  in  at  last  ?  And  they  say  the  murder  must 
have  been  done  between  half  past  ten  and  eleven.  That's  what  I 
know  about  it,  Ned,  and  what  I've  come  down  from  Hilbury  to 
tell  "em." 

Ned  Blackmere  had  seated  himself  on  the  side  of  his  bed  ;  his 
arms  rested  across  his  knees  ;  his  head  was  bent  forward,  listen- 
ing; when  Gershom  had  said  all,  instead  of  lifting  it,  he  bent  it 
lower, — lower  yet.  It  was  a  minute,  perhaps,  before  he  raised  it 
up,  and  looked  the  boy  in  the  face;  and  there  was  a  quick,  upward 
motion  of  the  hand  at  the  same  instant.  Something  came  to  his 
eyes,  perhaps,  that,  for  years  of  hard  looking  out  upon  a  hard 
world,  had  not  visited  them  before. 

"You've  argied  it  out,  shipmate;  and  it  may  be  you'll  save  my 
life, — whatever  that's  worth.  But  it  isn't  that.  You  didn't  believe 
it  of  me  ;  and  you've  taken  the  trouble  to  think  it  out ;  and  come 
here  o'  your  own  accord,  to  say  it.  That's  what  pulls  me  down  ; 
I  ain't  been  used  to  it." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  lowered  it  again,  for  a  minute  ;  then  he 
got  up,  and  made  a  step  to  Gershom,  and  held  out  his  hand,  a 
hard,  seamed,  callous  hand,  but  with  no  murder-stain  upon  it. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  to  ask  you  to  take  it  afore,"  said  he.  "  But 
now, — there !  "  And  Gershom's  was  seized  with  a  grip  that  might 
well,  of  itself,  have  forced  tears  to  his  eyes.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
tears  were  there. 

"  If  ever  we  two  stand  together  on  the  deck  of  the  same  vessel 
again,"  said  Old  Barnacle, — "blow  high  or  blow  low,  see  if  Ned 
Blackmere  don't  stand  your  friend.  That's  all." 

The  few  more  prison  days  wore  on  ;  the  sailor  in  his  cell  counted 
the  hours  that  seemed  almost  years.  Gershom  lived  on  board  the 
brig ;  slept  there,  that  is,  and  got  his  meals  at  an  eating-house. 

Mr.  Gair  asked  him  to  his  house ;   wondered  that  he  did  not 


160  The  Gayworthys. 

come ;  but  the  boy  made  excuse,  at  first,  that  he  was  better  on 
board  ;  all  he  had  come  for  was  to  see  Ned  and  his  give  evidence ; 
he  had  left  his  shore  clothes  at  home  ;  his  rough  pilot  coat  wasn't 
fit  for  a  parlor.  He  said  this,  at  first ;  but  the  blunt,  true  spirit  of 
Prudence  Vorse  worked  in  him,  and  came  out,  at  last. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  sir,"  he  said,  one  afternoon,  in  the 
counting-house,  when  Uncle  Reuben  urged  him  again  to  go  home 
with  him  to  tea.  "  You've  been  kind  to  me ;  and  you've  given  me 
something  to  do  ;  you've  been  fair  with  me,  and  about  me,  always  ; 
and  I'd  like  to  go  on  in  your  service  if  you  think  I'm  fit  for  it ;  but 
I  can't  keep  such  a  feeling  back,  and  put  a  smooth  face  before  it. 
Aunt  Jane  hasn't  been  fair  and  square  with  me,  sir.  If  it  offends 
you  for  me  to  say  this,  I'm  sorry  ;  but  you've  got  the  whole  truth 
now,  and  it's  best." 

Mr.  Gair  was  surprised,  perplexed ;  but  there  was  no  insult  in 
the  boy's  manner ;  only  a  plain  honesty.  He  could  not  be  offended. 

"  I  think  there  is  some  mistake,"  said  he.  "  You  must  have 
misunderstood.  Your  aunt  appears  to  me  to  be  very  fond  of  you." 

Gershom  was  silent,  out  of  respect ;  not  from  any  hesitancy  in 
his  own  opinion  :  Mr.  Gair  saw  that.  The  fair-minded  gentleman 
— for  he  was  that — knew,  from  experiences  of  his  own,  that  there 
were  certain  little  crookednesses  in  his  wife's  methods,  which  he 
often  wondered  at ;  since  the  straight  line  seemed  to  him  the 
shortest.  He  would  not  think  of  it  as  deliberate  deceit.  Still,  the 
subject  would  bear  no  discussion  even  in  thought :  he  laid  it  aside, 
as  he  had  doubtless  done  before.  He  knew  nothing,  and  he 
desired  to  know  nothing,  of  any  little  manoeuvre  of  hers  against 
which  Gershom's  simple  bluntness  might  have  revolted.  Let  it 
pass  :  it  would  come  right  by  and  by. 

A  man  can  but  resent  for  his  wife,  however,  when  it  comes  to 
speech  of  her.  There  was  a  little  sudden  stiffness,  which  he  could 
not  help,  as  he  said,  again,  ending  so  the  conversation — 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  like,  however.  I  don't  care  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions. Come  if  you  feel  like  it ;  there  can't  be  any  very  grave 
hindrance.  Matters  will  work  round  after  a  while  I  suppose.  It's 
never  best  to  lay  up  any  little  misconception  between  friends." 

Say  came  down  with  her  father,  and  had  one  of  her  old  happy 
hours  on  board  the  brig.  Gershom  was  kind.  He  cracked  a 
cocoanut  for  her ;  he  opened  his  sea-chest,  and  showed  her  the 
little  curious  things  a  sailor  contrives  and  picks  up  on  a  voyage ; 
he  had  the  red  basket  ready  for  her,  and  the  pink  and  spotted 
shells  ;  he  even  walked  up  with  her  when  she  went  home  and  car- 
ried them ;  but  he  would  not  go  in.  He  could  not  stop,  he  said. 
Say  wondered  ;  but  she  took  what  the  day  had  given  her,  and  laid 
it  up  among  her  pleasant  memories.  It  had  life  in  it,  that  served 
to  help  out  many  a  dead  day  after. 

The  court  assembled  on  Tuesday.  Blackmere's  case  came  up 
before  the  grand  jury  on  Wednesday. 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  161 

He  did  not  know  this,  of  course.  He  lay  waiting  in  his  cell, 
ignorant  of  the  day  or  moment  that  might  decide  his  fate ;  know- 
ing only  that  the  court  met  at  this  time,  and  that  it  was  pending 
over  him. 

The  Pearl  had  been  in  port  almost  three  weeks ;  in  less  than 
another  she  would  sail  again.  There  were  two  things  on  earth 
now  beside  his  pipe  that  Blackmere  the  prisoner  cared  for, — the 
hard  man,  who  had  thought  he  cared  for  nothing.  He  knew  he 
loved  the  brig,  now,  that  he  had  sailed  in  for  seven  years, — that 
had  given  him  his  sailor's  sobriquet.  He  knew,  at  least,  that  it 
would  almost  kill  him  if  a  bill  were  found  against  him,  and  he 
were  detained  in  prison  to  await  a  final  trial,  wearing  out  weeks  or 
months  there,  while  the  ocean  was  blue  in  the  coming  spring-time, 
and  the  Pearl  had  her  white  robes  on,  and  was  dancing  away  over 
the  waves.  Perhaps  he  did  not  know  yet  that  he  had  a  human 
love  in  his  heart ;  but  he  knew  he  had  a  thankfulness,  and  he 
thought  of  Gershom  Vorse  as  he  had  hardly  thought  of  a  human 
creature  since  he  was  a  boy.  It  was  life  or  death  he  waited  for  at 
the  decision  of  this  grand  jury  ;  though  the  worst  apparently  that 
could  happen  to  him  would  be  that  they  should  indict  him  for  the 
crime  and  hold  him  for  trial. 

And  the  jury  came  together  on  this  Wednesday,  a  score  and 
more  of  sworn  men,  impanelled  for  this  duty;  strangers  who  never 
heard  before  of  Edward  Blackmere,  who  knew  nothing  of  himself 
or  of  his  life,  who  were  simply  to  hear  the  scanty  evidence  of  those 
two  hours'  time,  and  from  their  fallible  human  judgment  decide,  as 
best  they  could,  the  probabilities  of  guilt. 

The  district  attorney  entered  his  complaint  on  behalf  of  the 
Commonwealth,  and  brought  forward  his  witnesses.  They  were 
summoned  all  together  from  the  outer  hall,  and  the  foreman  of  the 
jury  administered  the  oath. 

Biddy  Flynn  cast  an  apprehensive  look  about  her,  as  she  came 
into  the  jury-room,  expecting  to  see  the  prisoner  there  ;  bethinking 
herself  painfully  of  what  she  was  about  to  do  ;  bethinking  herself 
also  remorsefully  of  the  fine  summer  shawl  that  lay  folded  in  the 
press  at  home.  How  could  she  ever  put  it  on  her  shoulders  again 
with  an  easy  mind, — she  who  was  going  to  swear  away  his  life  ? 
She  wished  in  her  heart  that  she  had  trusted  the  Holy  Mary  to 
keep  guard  over  the  peep-hole,  and  to  save  her  from  her  nightly 
dread.  "Sure,  wasn't  the  Blessed  Mother  and  all  the  saints 
enough,  but  she  must  go  pittin'  her  nose  intil  this  ?  "  She  wished 
to  goodness  it  had  been  fire  first. 

Yet  she  held  up  her  hand  with  the  rest,  and  took  her  oath  like 
a  good  Catholic ;  reassured  in  a  degree  by  the  discovery  that 
Blackmere  was  not  present ;  and  then,  the  others  being  withdrawn 
again,  and  she  retained  to  witness  first,  she  drew  her  breath  hard 
and  prepared  to  tell  her  story  steadfastly.  "  The  truth,  and  the 
whole  truth ;  "  as  to  "  nothing  but  the  truth,"she  could  not  keep 


1 62  The  Gayworthys. 

herself,  except  as  she  was  repeatedly  checked  by  the  prosecuting 
officer,  from  throwing  in,  gratuitously,  possible  pleas  and  supposi- 
tions in  favor  of  the  accused,  which  occurred  to  her,  Biddy  Flynn, 
and  might  fail  to  occur  to  the  minds  of  the  twenty-three  gentlemen 
who  were  to  weigh  and  decide  upon  the  evidence. 

"What  knowledge  have  you  of  the  man,  Edward  Blackmere, 
now  in  jail  accused  of  the  murder  of  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Heth  sirs  !  it's  little  enough,  I  or  anybody.  He  was  aff  at  the 
say,  mostly.  An'  it's  a  poor  home  he  had  till  come  back  to,  an' 
that's  thrue  for  him,  whiddher  or  no." 

"  You  knew  his  wife,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Troth,  an'  I  did ;  an"  a  purty  piece  she  was  too,  wid  her  tan- 
trums." 

"  Tell  the  jury  what  you  know  of  the  occurrences  of  the  night  of 
the  seventeenth  of  January  last  past." 

"  The  night  av  the  murdher,  is  it  ? — Will,  thin,  Sukey  Blackmere 
hadn't  darkened  the  doures  for  three  days.  An'  we  knew  well 
enough,  whin  she  did  come,  it  was  she  wud  bring  the  sivin  divils 
wid  her.  An'  it's  I  was  an  the  trimble  for  fear  iv  fire,  thim  nights ; 
seeing,  yer  honors,  as  me  bit  iv  a  place,  worse  luck  to  it !  was  jist 
alangside  iv  hers." 

"  One  moment.  Explain,  Mrs.  Flynn,  if  you  please,  what  you 
mean  by  the  seven  devils  ?  Was  Mrs.  Blackmere  in  the  habit  of 
bringing  home  company  with  her  ?  " 

"  Sorra  company,  but  jist  that  I  tould  ye  av.  The  sivin  divils  that 
wud  git  intil  her,  wid  the  gin.  I'm  not  saying,  nayther,  but  there 
might  likely  be  some  iv  her  comerags  in  afther  her,  now-  an"  agin  ; 
an'  who's  to  know,  yer  honors,  whin  she'd  been  aff  an  the  straggle 
three  days  an'  nights  what  sort  iv  riff-raffery  might  come  trailin' 
afther  her  let  alone  a  dacent  man  that  was  jist  home  from  the  wild 
says,  and  fetched  back  his  wages  reg'lar  more  shame  to  her  for 
that  same?  " 

Biddy  rolled  off  this  sentence  of  query  from  the  tip  of  her  tongue, 
in  true  impetuous  Hibernian  fashion,  without  breath  or  comma : 
and  it  was  only  the  final  interrogation  point  that  gave  the  examin- 
ing officer  opportunity  to  draw  curb  upon  her. 

"  We  don't  want  any  conjectures,  or  suggestions,  my  good  woman. 
Your  simple  evidence  is  all  that  is  required.  The  jury  will  take 
care  of  the  rest,  and  draw  its  own  conclusions." 

"  Humph  !  it's  not  Biddy  Flynn  wud  be  afther  middling  wid  what 
was  none  iv  her  concerns  ;  but  two  heads  is  bitter  nor  one  for  all 
that,  if  one  an  'em  is  a  shape's  head.  An'  yer  honors  may  jist 
dhrah  ahl  the  conclusions  ye  like  ! "  Said,  not  insolently,  but  with 
a  twinkle  of  pure  Irish  drollery,  and  a  tossing  up  of  broad,  white 
cap-border  that  betokened  anything  but  a  sheepish  consciousness 
on  her  part. 

"  You  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  interrupt  the  regular  proceed- 
ings ;  but  go  on  with  your  evidence  in  the.  case." 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  163 

"  An'  did  I  inthurupt  ?  Sure,  I  thought  it  was  goin'  an  swately_ 
I  was.  Will,  thin,  it  was  that  night,  the  sivinteenth  iv  Jinuary,  that 
1  tuk  me  sup  iv  tay,  an'  redded  up  me  room,  an'  was  goin'  to  bed, 
tired  enough  wid  a  hard  day's  wash,  whin  I  bethought  mesel  iv  the 
Blissid  Virgin." 

"  We  do  not  need  to  know  that,  Mrs.  Flynn.  Do  not  dwell  upon 
your  thoughts,  or  any  irrelevant  outside  circumstances  ;  but  give  us 
the  facts,  according  to  your  knowledge." 

"  Arrah,  an'  is  it  thoughts  that's  outside  circumshtances,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  An  isn't  the  Blissid  Virgin  a  fact  ?  An  wud  I  'av  known 
annything  at  ahl  aboot  it,  but  for  hersel  ?  Isn't  it  she  that's  hingin 
be  the  nail  over  the  bit  iv  a  crack  in  the  boordin  atwixt  me  room 
an*  Sukey  Blackmere's  ?  An'  how  could  I  'av  seen  a  ha'porth  iv 
ahl  wint  an,  but  for  bethinkin  mesel  iv  her,  I  wondher? — So,  I  tuk 
her  down ;  an,  bad  luck  till  me,  I  jist  luk't  in  ;  for  fear  iv  fire,  yer 
honors.  An,  I  see " 

Biddy  paused. 

"  Very  well.     What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  a  dishgraceful  dhirty  room,  yer  honor.  Enough  to  make 
any  dacent  man  shwear  to  come  home  till  it ;  let  alone  bein  eight 
months  upon  the  say.  An'  I  see  the  man  there,  sittin'  his  lane  ;  Ned 
Blackmere;  an'  he  had  his  ilbows  an  his  knees,  an'  his  head 
betwane  his  two  fishts.  An'  he  lukt  as  if  soometh'n  lay  so  heavy 
upon  him  as  he'd  niver  rise  up  from  anundher  it.  An'  are  yees 
afther  thinkin,  gintlemen,  I  can  fale  it  a  purty  thing  to  be  shtandin' 
here  the  day,  a  hilpin  to  pile  moor  an  ?  I'll  till  yees  the  truth,  for 
I've  shwore  me  Bible  oath  an  it ;  but  for  ahl  he's  a  dark  an*  a 
shtrong  man,  an'  was  an  angered  one  that  night,  an'  many  times 
before,  for  rason  why,  I'll  never  believe,  as  God  sees  me,  that  he 
shtruck  the  blow !  Don't  I  know  what  he  gave  me  the  fine  silk 
shahl  for,  coom  Foorth  iv  July  two  years  ago  ?  Wasn't  it  that  I 
shouldn't  complain  iv  the  misherable  jade,  an'  git  her  turned  upon 
the  shtraat  ?  Don't  I  know  it,  as  well  as  if  he'd  said  the  wurrds  ? 
An'  don't  judge  hard,  yer  honors,  as  ye'll  be  jidged  yersels  some 
day,  what  I'll  have  to  till  yees  nixt ! " 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  attorney,  quietly,  forbearing  this  time  to 
rebuke  her. 

"  He  was  a  brukken  an'  an  ill  used  man,  I  till  yees ;  an'  that  was 
what  was  in  his  face,  an'  not  murdher.  An'  he  shqueezed  his 
fishts  tighter  agin  his  jaws,  an'  the  wurruds  came  out  as  if  they 
couldn't  be  hild  in.  He  called  her  bashte,  an  thrue  for  her,  she 
was  that,  an'  no  more  nor  liss.  An'  thin  he  said  it  was  this  that 
stud  between  him  an'  any  bitter  home  upon  God's  earth.  An' 
whiddher  a  man  says  it  or  not,  mushn't  he  think  it,  gintlemin,. 
whin  its  druv  doon  upon  him  so  ?  An'  thin  he  shwore  a  big  round 
wurrd  as  maybe  anny  one  iv  yees  wud  iv  shwore  it  in  his  place,  the 
night — An'  thin,  I  hung  up  the  Blissid  Mary  in  her  place  agin,  an' 


164  The  Gayworthys. 

cript  down,  an'  got  intil  me  bed.  For  it  was  fitter  for  the  pitiful 
Mother  till  hear  more  nor  I !  " 

"  Do  you  know  at  what  hour  of  the  evening  this  was  ?  " 

"  Sorra  know,  beyant  that  the  bells  rung  nine  while  I  was  washin 
up  me  bits  of  tay  things  ;  an'  before  I  fell  ashlaap,  the  clock  struck 
tin." 

"  Was  that  the  last  you  knew  of  Edward  Blackmere  ?  " 

"  Excipt  that  I  heard  him  git  up,  prisintly,  an'  walk  out.  An'  I 
couldn't  say  whiddher  it  was  beyant  the  door  he  wint  or  not ;  he 
might  be  waiten  there,  or  he  might  iv  wint  away ;  but  in  me  shoul, 
I  believe  he  wint  away  intirely ;  an'  whativer  happunt  afther,  he 
knew  no  moor  nor  I  ;  but  it  was  the  Lard's  own  deliverance  till 
him." 

Upon  further  questioning,  Biddy  related,  as  clearly  as  she  could 
the  circumstances  of  her  waking  shortly  after,  as  the  reader  knows 
them  ;  and  of  her  giving  the  alarm. 

She  described  the  sounds  which  roused  her.  "  Mixed  up  wid  the 
shlape,  they  was,"  she  said,  "  so  I  couldn't  iv  shwore  thin.whiddher 
I  haard  thim  or  dhrarned  thim  ;  but  I  knew  well,  afther,  whin  we 
found  the  wurruk  that  was  done.  It  was  a  fahlin',  an'  a  crushin', 
towanstlike :  an'  the  shteps,  thin,  goin'  aff.  Sure,  I  know  well  it 
was  sorra  else  than  the  murdherin'  itsel ;  and  the  villain's  faat  that 
did  it !  "  She  testified  confidently  also  to  the  long,  moaning,  bub- 
bling breath  that  had  terrified  her  at  the  last,  just  before  she  rushed 
up-stairs  to  Luke  Dolan's  door. 

"  How  long  had  you  been  asleep,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afther  shupozin',  at  ahl.  What  call  iv  I  to  go  shupozin', 
whin  it's  an  me  Bible  oath  I  am  ?  It  might  iv  been  an  oor,  an'  it 
might  iv  been — hoult !  I  can  till  yees  this,  thin.  It  was  pitch 
darruk  in  the  avenin,  whin  I  pit  oot  me  candle,  an'  whin  I  wakened 
there  was  a  whisper  iv  light  in  the  windy,  for  the  moon  was  comin* 
ap,  though  she  hadn't  got  fair  over  the  taps  iv  the  houses.  Maybe 
yer,  honors  are  knowledgeable  to  tell  what  time  that  might  iv 
been  ?  " 

"  Make  note  of  that ;  it  may  be  important,"  said  the  attorney  to 
the  juror  who  was  recording  evidence.  And  Biddy  was  dismissed. 

Luke  Dolan  testified  to  the  character  of  the  deceased  ;  and  to 
the  ill  terms  on  which  she  lived  with  her  husband  ;  bearing  witness 
at  the  same  time,  as  Biddy  had  done,  that  Blackmere  provided  for 
her  necessities  "  like  an  honest  man  ; "  and  that  though  he  had 
often  heard  high  words  between  them,  and  "  been  in  dread  of 
worse,"  he  had  never  known  him  to  strike  the  woman  a  blow. 

He  testified  also,  as  did  other  inmates  of  the  house,  that  it  was 
"  full  eleven  by  the  clock  " — some  said  a  few  minutes  later — when 
the  alarm  arose.  The  finding  of  the  body  ;  the  fact  that  life  had 
manifestly  but  just  departed,  and  the  impossibility  of  the  woman's 
having  lived  many  minutes  after  such  a  blow  was  struck,  were 
brought  forward  in  testimony  by  the  same  witnesses  who  had 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  165 

given  evidence  previously,  at  the  coroner's  inquest  and  before  the 
magistrate. 

These  points  of  time,  therefore,  were  proved.  That  it  was  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  o'clock,  when  Biddy  Flynn  first  made  her  in- 
vestigation, and  saw  Blackmere  in  his  wife's  room.  That  it  must 
have  been  nearly  eleven  when  she  awoke,  and  heard  the  sounds 
which  alarmed  her ;  since  there  was  the  "  whisper  iv  light  in  the 
windy  "  and  the  moon,  upon  referring  to  an  almanac,  was  ascer- 
tained to  have  risen,  on  the  night  of  the  I7th  of  January,  at  10 
o'clock  and  24  minutes  ;  this  conclusion  being  strengthened  also 
by  the  fact  that  the  deceased  was  breathing  just  before  Biddy  ran 
up  to  Dolan's  door.  And  that  it  was  eleven,  or  more,  when  the 
inmates  of  the  house  gathered  in  the  room,  and  found  her  dead. 
Therefore,  that  the  deed  must  have  been  done  as  late  as  half  past 
ten,  certainly,  more  probably  at  near  eleven. 

Now  Gershom  Vorse,  having  been  meanwhile,  or  at  any  time,  in 
communication  with  none  of  these  previous  witnesses,  was  recalled. 

"  I  will  request  your  careful  attention,  gentlemen,"  said  the  at- 
torney to  the  jury,  "  to  the  evidence  of  this  witness.  It  has  been 
volunteered  since  the  accused  was  arrested  and  held  to  answer  to 
the  charge.  You  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  all  that  has  foregone, 
tending  to  fix  the  points  of  time  in  relation  to  the  case  before  you. 
You  will  proceed  to  tell  the  jury,"  he  said,  addressing  Gershom, 
"  all  that  you  can  recollect  of  the  disposal  of  your  own  time,  on  the 
evening  of  the  seventeenth  of  January  last  past ;  and  all  that  you 
know,  positively,  of  the  movements  of  the  accused,  Edward  Black- 
mere,  upon  that  same  night." 

"  I  was  on  board  the  brig  Pearl,  which  came  into  this  port  that 
evening,  at  about  seven  o'clock.  We  made  fast  to  the  wharf  at 
about  half-past  seven.  Edward  Blackmere  was  one  of  the  crew. 
I  left  him  on  board  at  eight  o'clock,  when  I  went  ashore,  and 
walked  up  to  the  house  of  Mr!  Reuben  Gair  in  Hill  Street.  I  re- 
mained at  his  house,  perhaps,  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The  bell 
rung  for  nine,  as  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  the  brig.  I  stayed  on 
deck  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  before  I  went  below.  Then  I  partly  un- 
dressed and  turned  in.  I  lay  awake  and  heard  the  clock  strike  ten. 
Very  soon  after — it  could  not  have  been  fifteen  minutes,  and,  I 
think,  hardly  ten — Blackmere  came  on  board.  He  came  down 
into  the  forecastle  and  struck  a  match,  and  lit  his  pipe.  He  stopped  ' 
beside  my  berth,  and  probably  thought  me  asleep  ;  for  he  said  to 
himself,  '  So — he  wasn't  wanted  ;  no  more  than  I.  He'll  find  'em 
out,  by  and  by.'  I  did  not  move  nor  speak  ;  and  he  went  up  the 
ladder.  I  heard  him  walking  up  and  down  the  forecastle  deck, 
until  after  midnight.  The  clock  struck  one  just  as  he  came  down 
and  turned  in.  This  is  all,  sir.  I  can  simply  say,  upon  my  oath, 
that  I  know  Ned  Blackmere  was  aboard  the  Pearl,  from  fifteen 
minutes  after  ten,  or  earlier,  till  one  o'clock  ;  and  I  found  him  there 
when  I  awoke,  at  six,  next  morning." 


1 66  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  may  not  have  fallen  partly  asleep  be- 
tween ten  o'clock  and  the  time  Blackmere  came  down  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain,  sir,  that  I  never  closed  my  eyes,  nor  lost  my- 
self, till  after  one.  I  had  a  good  deal  to  think  of.  I  had  heard 
l>ad  news." 

"  How  was  the  forecastle  ?     Open,  or  closed  ?  " 

"  The  doors  were  open,  sir.  And  the  scuttle  pushed  back  just 
far  enough  for  a  man  to  pass  in  and  out  easily." 

"  Was  it  dark  or  light,  above,  when  Blackmere  came  on 
board  ?  " 

"  Dark,  sir,  when  he  came ;  but  the  moon  began  to  come  up  a 
little  after." 

"  How  long  after  ?  " 

"  Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  I  should  think." 

"  How  does  the  brig  lie  ?  " 

"  At  the  end  of  the  pier ;  stern  down  the  harbor." 

"  Toward  the  east,  then  ?  " 

"  Southeast;  yes,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  young  man  ;  you  have  given  your  evidence  very 
clearly,  and  to  the  point.  You  may  go." 

"  The  evidence  is  all  in,  gentlemen,"  said  the  presiding  officer 
to  the  jury,  after  Gershom  had  withdrawn.  "  And  my  own  opinion 
is,  that  you  will  hardly  be  able  to  find  a  bill  in  this  case,  especially 
under  the  aspect  which  it  is  made  to  assume  by  this  additional 
testimony.  The  foregoing  evidence  goes  to  prove  that  the  mur- 
dered woman  had  not  ceased  to  breathe  at  a  few  minutes  to  eleven 
o'clock.  The  medical  opinion  given  upon  oath,  declares  that  death 
would  almost  immediately  follow  such  a  blow.  Mrs.  Flynn,  who 
heard  that  last  struggling  breath,  and  directly  after  gave  the 
alarm,  testifies  to  having  heard  also,  at  her  first  awaking,  the  sound 
of  retreating  steps  from  the  adjoining  room.  The  moon,  she  says, 
had  at  that  time  risen  sufficiently  high  for  its  light  to  be  perceptible 
in  the  street.  It  must,  therefore,  have  been  as  much  as  half  an 
hour  high.  You  find  from  the  almanac  that  the  moon,  on  that 
night,  rose  at  ten  o'clock  twenty-four  minutes.  The  other  in- 
mates of  the  house  declare  that  it  was  at  or  after  eleven  o'clock 
when  they  entered  Mrs.  Blackmere's  room,  and  discovered  her  to 
be  dead.  It  seems  plainly  indicated  by  these  facts,  that  the  mur- 
der, the  escape  of  the  murderer  from  the  premises,  the  awaking  of 
Mrs.  Flynn,  and  the  alarm  in  the  house,  and  the  finding  of  the  body, 
must  all  have  taken  place  in  very  rapid  succession,  and  as  late,  or 
later,  than  a  quarter  to  eleven  by  the  clock.  The  last  witness  tells 
you,  clearly,  that  the  accused  came  back  on  board  the  brig  at 
about  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  after  ten  ;  and  that  the  moon  came  up 
some  fifteen  minutes  later.  Setting  all  this  aside,  even,  there 
seems  a  failure  of  direct  evidence  that  could  convict  the  man.  But 
the  positive  proof  in  his  favor  must  rest  upon  this  question  of 
half  an  hour  of  time.  It  will  be  your  duty  carefully  to  weigh 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  167 

the  facts,  and  to  decide  according  to  the  interpretation  they  bear 
to  you." 

The  grand  jury  deliberated,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
could  "rind  no  bill." 

Edward  Blackmere  was  ordered  to  be  discharged  from  custody. 

Biddy  Flynn's  suggestions,  however  inappropriate  as  testimony,, 
and  unnecessary  as  addressed  to  intelligence  fully  prepared  to 
devote  itself  to  the  investigation,  found  place  also  in  the  minds  of 
the  twenty-three  gentlemen  whose  duty  it  was  to  consider  them  ; 
and  her  "  whisper  iv  light  in  the  windy  "  was  the  first  link  in  the 
chain  of  facts  elicited  which  made  it  impossible  to  charge  Black- 
mere  with  the  crime.  It  would  have  done  Biddy  great  good  to 
have  known  this ;  as  it  was,  she  never  put  on  the  silk  shawl  of  a 
pleasant  Sunday  without  a  "  Thanks  be  to  God  I  said  as  much  for 
him  as  agin  him,  annyway  ! " 

But  it  was  Gershom  Vorse's  testimony,  given  with  such  simple 
clearness  that  saved  the  man.  The  district  attorney  said  this 
to  him  as  they  walked  up  the  street  with  Mr.  Gair,  after  the  court 
adjourned. 

"  It  was  well  for  the  fellow  that  you  came  forward,"  he  said. 
"  And  also  that  the  moon  rose  just  at  that  particular  hour  on  that 
particular  night.  It  all  hung  on  a  very  delicate  hinge.  The  moon 
was  the  only  witness  who  mightn't  be  supposed  to  make  a  mistake 
of  a  half  hour  or  so.  Independently  of  the  question  of  time,  how- 
ever, I  felt  that  without  further  evidence  against  him,  a  jury  could 
never  have  convicted  him.  He  was  seen  there  an  hour  previous, 
and  that  was  all.  Nobody  could  tell  when  the  woman  came  in  or 
how.  As  Mrs.  Flynn  observed,  there's  no  knowing  what  sort  of 
'  comerags  '  she  may  have  had." 

"  Blackmere's  a  good  fellow  and  a  valuable  sailor.  He's  odd 
and  churlish,  but  I  don't  believe  there's  the  germ  of  such  a  crime 
in  his  nature,"  said  Mr.  Gair.  "  He  has  sailed  with  Burley  for  six 
years.  I've  never  heard  the  first  ill  thing  of  him." 

"  He's  a  noble-hearted  fellow,"  said  Gershom,  warmly,  "  and 
everything  has  always  worked  against  him.  There's  such  a  lot  of 
cheating  and  meanness  in  the  world  ! " 

"  You've  found  that  out  early,"  said  the  legal  gentleman,  glanc- 
ing round  upon  the  youth. 

Gershom  did  not  answer.  He  said  to  himself  only,  "  He  does 
not  contradict  me  ! " 

The  mistake  of  Gershom  Vorse  was, — now  and  for  years 
through  life, — that  he  overlooked  the  very  good  by  contrast  with 
which  he  judged  the  evil.  He  forgot  what  it  was  in  himself  that 
revolted  against  this  evil.  He  saw  a  noble  nature  warped  and 
soured  by  wrong,  and  failed  to  consider  that  but  for  this  very 
nobleness  the  warping  and  the  souring  could  not  have  been.  He 
saw  that  there  had  been  trusting  and  betrayal,  faith  and  disap- 
pointment. He  knew  that  he,  too,  had  believed  and  been  de- 


1 68  The  Gayworthys. 

ceived ;  but  the  faith,  and  what  it  had  first  grown  from  and  been 
fed  upon,  was  suddenly  lost  sight  of  in  the  treachery  that  blasted 
it.  He  had  "  come  out  to  an  edge,"  as  he  had  once  said  of  him- 
self, and  looked  forth  for  a  little  upon  life ;  it  was  the  night  side 
of  things  that  first  revealed  itself.  He  forgot  the  day  that  had 
been,  or  he  believed  that  it  was  daylight  only  in  the  one  home,  and 
in  the  few  hearts  ;  darkness  was  the  "  stuff "  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  made  of.  The  stars  that  shone  out  here  and  there  showed 
but  the  black  gulfs  about  them.  There  was  his  grandfather,  there 
was  his  mother,  there  was  Blackmere  ;  but  there  was  Aunt  Jane, 
— there  was  the  sailor's  uncle,  sister,  wife.  There  were  Aunt 
Joanna  and  Rebecca  ;  but  then  there  were  all  the  little  shams  and 
malignities  and  hypocrisies  of  Hilbury  ;  the  Proutys,  and  the 
Hineses,  and  Stacy  Lawton's  silly  set ;  and  Aunt  Joanna  knew  it 
as  well  as  he  did  ;  Aunt  Rebecca  was  a  saint,  and  shut  her  eyes. 
There  were  Burley  and  Oakman,  and  the  stories  of  their  generous 
bravery  and  truth  ;  but  there  were  the  yarns  of  the  forecastle  that 
had  opened  up  a  glimpse  into  the  meannesses  and  cruelties  and 
depravities  of  sailor  life.  He  had  got  it  all  to  live  through,  he  sup- 
posed ;  he  would  set  his  little  strength  against  the  wrong  as  he 
best  could,  but  he  looked  for  wrong  now  rather  than  for  right ; 
he  was  taking  up  a  position  antagonistic  rather  than  gladly 
co-operative  with  the  world  as  he  found  it.  He  was  beginning  to 
do  this, — he  was  setting  his  face  that  way ;  he  was  only  seventeen, 
and  it  had  not  hardened  in  him  yet ;  but  the  first  joyous  credulity  of 
his  youth  was  already  gone.  And  whose  fault  was  it  first  of  all  ? 

Gershom  had  got  a  new  bitterness  into  his  heart  in  these  days 
of  his  waiting  about  the  court.  A  new  revelation  had  come  to 
him  of  himself,  and  of  all  that  Aunt  Jane  had  thwarted  in  him. 
He  had  found  out  what  it  was  that  he  ought  to  have  been, — what 
this  quick,  keen,  uncompromising  sense  of  the  just  and  right  was 
given  to  him  for.  He  could  have  stood  up  and  pleaded  for  it  as 
lie  heard  it  pleaded  for  by  others.  He  followed  the  argument ; 
he  caught  its  points ;  they  flashed  upon  him  as  he  heard  the 
evidence  given  in,  and  he  anticipated  them  in  the  speech  of  the 
learned  counsel.  It  was  a  civil  case  he  listened  to,  hampered 
with  technicalities,  confused  with  intricacies  of  law ;  yet  through 
all  this  his  clear,  honest  apprehension  grasped  the  inherent  Right  of 
the  thing,  and  his  heart  beat  high,  almost  to  the  forgetting  of  his 
anxiety  for  Blackmere,  as  he  listened  to  the  eloquent  plea,  and 
heard  at  last  the  verdict  given  for  the  plaintiff,  and  knew  that  one 
wrong  at  last  had  been  rectified  in  the  wicked  world,  that  morn- 
ing. This  was  what  his  instinct  would  have  turned  to  when  he 
had  come  to  see  more  broadly  what  various  work  there  was  for 
men  to  do,  and  when  his  intellect  had  been  trained  to  the  point  for 
choosing.  "  I  could  have  done  it,  too!  "  he  said  to  himself  after- 
ward, in  a  turmoil  of  excited  thought.  "  Some  time  I  could  have 
done  such  things,  too !  If  I  had  taken  what  my  grandfather 


Guilty  or  Not  Guilty.  169 

would  have  given  me,  if  I  had  been  in  college,  now,  getting  myself 
ready  for  it,  instead  of  running  off  after  my  first  fancy,  and  fixing 
myself  in  a  forecastle  for  life,  perhaps  !  " 

"  Grandfather  said  the  truth  ;  there  is  scope  for  nobleness  in 
every  profession ;  and  I  might  have  had  a  wider  scope.  If  I  had 
only  gone  back  to  Hilbury,  and  seen  him  !  If  I  had  only  had  my 
mother's  message,  that  I  ought  to  have  had, — that  Aunt  Jane 
swindled  me  out  of, — swindling  me  out  of  my  life,  too,  at  the  same 
time ! — There's  nobody  to  send  me  to  college  now.  I  must  never 
let  my  mother  know  I've  had  a  thought  of  it ;  I  can't  take  all  her 
little  property  ;  and  that  is  what  it  would  come  to.  No  ;  my  life's 
fixed  for  me.  I've  chosen  to  be  a  sailor,  there's  no  help  for  it  now ; 
I  must  make  the  best  of  it.  And  I  was  so  glad  to  go  in  the  Pearl 
less  than  a  year  ago! — But  I've  saved  Blackmere's  life;  and  there 
mightn't  have  been  anybody  else  to  do  that ! — I'll  go  ahead,  now, 
and  see  what  it  leads  to  !  I'll  put  my  whole  might  into  it,  as  my 
grandfather  told  me  ;  I'll  make  a  man  of  myself  !  I'll  think  of  my 
mother.  I'll  think  of " 

"  Why  had  not  God  prevented  this  ?  "  was  the  rebellious  thought 
with  which  he  ended.  The  first  shadow  of  religious  doubt  fell  on 
him  at  this  instant. 

Jane  Gair !  will  you  ever  find  out  all  that  you  have  done  ? 

Gershom  Vorse  went  back  to  Hilbury ;  he  stayed  with  his 
mother  till  the  last  possible  moment ;  then  he  came  down  and 
joined  Blackmere,  and  shipped  for  his  second  voyage  in  the  Pearl. 
As  ordinary  seaman,  this  time ;  next  it  should  be  as  able  hand. 
His  life  was  fixed  for  him ;  there  was  nothing  to  go  back  for,  now. 
There  were  years  of  danger  and  hardship  before  him  ;  of  weariness 
and  disgust,  very  likely  ;  there  was  the  hope  of  rising,  of  coming 
to  be  master  of  a  ship,  by  and  by ;  of  doing  great  things  for  his 
mother  yet  before  she  should  grow  old  :  he  had  not  done  dreaming 
even  yet. 

In  all  his  dreams  the  sailor  Blackmere  had  a  place ;  these  two 
clung  together ;  there  was  a  fast  friendship  between  them  now. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  against  the  world  ;  not  seeing  the  beauty  of 
their  own  attitude  ;  discerning  only  the  necessity  that  set  them  so. 

"  You're  the  only  one  that  kticnvs"  said  Blackmere  to  the  boy. 
"  There'll  always  be  doubt  hangin'  over  me,  for  all.  I  wish  a'most 
they'd  found  the  bill,  and  I'd  had  my  trial.  I'd  ha'  been  one  thing 
or  the  other  then." 

Blackmere  had  read  the  doubt  in  the  looks  of  his  old  neighbors 
when  he  went  back,  and  gave  away  his  bits  of  furniture  among 
them  ;  he  would  sell  nothing. 

They  thanked  him ;  they  were  glad  of  his  getting  off ;  but  they 
thanked  him  with  a  certain  timid  shrinking  as  if  there  were  some 
strange  spell  and  horror  upon  him  still.  They  spoke  of  it  as  a 
"  getting  off."  Only  Biddy  Flynn  bade  him  "  God  bliss  ye,"  and 
"  knew  that  sorra  thing  he'd  had  til  do  wid  it,  at  ahl ! " 


170  The  Gayworthys. 

"  They  think  its  greatly  luck,  and  having  friends,"  said  old 
Barnacle,  moodily.  "  I'll  never  overlive  it.  It'll  come  up  agin  me, 
yet.  There's  a  rope  round  my  neck,  though  they  didn't  hang  me 
up  by  it." 

So  these  two  sailed  away  again  together  in  the  Pearl. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  ROUGH   OFF. 

SICKNESS  and  death  come  every  day  ;  as  the  good  Doctor  had 
said.  Somewhere  or  another — yes ;  they  are  all  around  us ;  we 
hear  of  them  ;  they  make  a  staple  of  our  daily  news  ;  yet  there  are 
periods,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of  almost  every  tolerably  healthy 
country  neighborhood,  when  there  seems  to  be  an  invisible  cordon 
of  safety  drawn  about  it ;  when  for  years,  there  happens  no  note- 
worthy death;  none  that  leaves  a  felt  vacancy.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, the  Reaper  comes,  gathering  in,  in  one  short  season,  the 
harvest  he  has  waited  for. 

It  had  been  so  in  Hilbury.  Except  deaths  of  children,  or  of  the 
very  old,  who  must  be  dropping  off  in  turn,  the  little  circle  in 
which  the  elements  of  this  our  simple  story  germinated,  had  been 
the  same,  untouched  of  vital  change,  for  years  ;  enough  in  number 
to  take  in  the  whole  conscious  lifetime  of  little  Sarah  Gair.  Sum- 
mer after  summer  she  had  gone  up  there  to  see  the  same  familiar 
faces  about  the  villages,  and  in  the  pews  at  church,  and  in  the 
farmhouses  where  her  aunts  went  visiting  with  her.  Only  Mrs. 
Hartshorne  had  died ;  this  event,  in  its  solemnity  and  suddenness, 
and  from  the  emphasis  of  circumstance  at  the  time,  had  stood 
alone,  and  been  made  memorable  ;  minor  affairs  were  dated  from 
it — before  and  after ;  it  was  an  era. 

Now — within  these  six  months  past — death  and  change  had  been 
busy.  Hilbury  gave  its  quota  of  events  into  the  chronicle  of  its 
district.  Several  of  its  leading  townsmen  had  passed  away.  One 
after  another,  from  their  responsible  positions,  from  the  headship 
of  their  families,  from  use  in  the  little  community,  they  had  gone 
silently ;  and  from  the  places  that  knew  them,  and  that  scarcely 
seemed  the  same,  they  had  dropped  out,  leaving  only  a  memory, 
and  a  graven  record  in  the  old  churchyard  where  their  graves  were 
not  yet  green. 

Squire  Lawton  ;  Parson  Fairbrother ;  Doctor  Gayworthy. 

And  now,  as  the  spring-time  softened,  and  the  farmers  began  to 
be  busy  in  the  fields,  and  the  year's  plans  opened  out  to  hopeful- 
ness and  industry,  it  was  growing  evident  that  another — humbler 
than  either  of  these,  perhaps — yet  so  quietly  useful  in  his  place, 
and  so  wonted  among  them — so  a  part  of  their  everyday  associa- 


The  Rough  Off.  171 

tions,  as  many  a  simple  soul,  fixed  and  constant  in  its  little  round 
of  life,  grows  to  be  in  a  neighborhood, — that  when  he  should  dis- 
appear wholly  from  their  midst  the  townspeople  would  say,  won- 
deringly  to  each  other,  "  Who  would  have  thought  we  should  have 
missed  him  so  ?  " — a  man  like  this,  it  was  growing  evident,  was 
about  to  follow  meekly  on  in  the  great  procession  that  moveth 
ever,  soundless  and  grand,  between  the  worlds — a  bridge  of  souls 
across  the  eternal  void. 

Jaazaniah  Hoogs  "  kept  failing."  Slowly,  hesitating  between 
life  and  death  a  long,  long  time.  Temperament  rules,  perhaps,  in 
all  things,  to  the  last.  We  are  surprised  foolishly  when  the  vig- 
orous and  robust  life,  full  of  energy,  quick  and  strong  in  all  its 
deed,  meets  death  as  it  has  met  all  else  before ;  and  goes  down, 
when  the  call  comes,  without  a  pause  or  parley  among  the  shadows, 
and  hides  itself  suddenly  from  our  sight.  The  feeble  organization 
resolves  slowly ;  parts  thread  by  thread,  with  its  hold  on  earth ;  as 
old  Hines  said  coarsely  and  unfeelingly,  but  with  a  certain  basis  of 
truth  for  his  words, — it  "  can't  seem  to  up  an'  die,  even,  smart,  an' 
ha  done  with  it !  " 

There  is  a  beauty  and  a  use  in  strength  ;  there  is  a  beauty  and 
a  use  in  feebleness,  also.  All  are  not  made  alike.  God,  who  cuts 
no  two  leaves  upon  a  tree  after  the  same  invariable  model,  shapes 
also  His  soul-work  after  His  own  will,  variously. 

Wealthy  watched  and  tended,  unweariedly.  She  knew  her  hus- 
band must  die.  She  never  thought  that  he  was  long  in  dying. 
She  read  a  language  in  his  pale,  patient  face, — in  his  large,  soft, 
gentle  eye, — that  needed  no  spoken  words  for  her.  She  made  up 
his  bed  for  him  fresh  and  sweet,  and  lifted  his  shoulders — painless 
now,  but  with  the  stalwart  strength  gone  out  of  them  forever, — 
against  the  comfortable  pillows  ;  and  pulled  the  curtain  back  from 
the  low  window  near  which  he  lay  ;  unfolding  so  the  sweet,  grow- 
ing greenness  without  ;  and  put  up  the  sash,  in  the  mild  sunny 
mornings,  letting  in  the  song  of  birds.  Away  down  the  mountain- 
side, among  the  rocks  and  whispering  trees,  and  glittering  trickle 
of  water-threads,  he  could  look  ;  the  calm,  clear  pond  sleeping 
below,  and  the  brightening  blue  of  heaven  bending  over  all. 

She  left  him  so,  with  his  little  Bible  at  his  side,  and  went  away ; 
pursuing  her  daily  morning  work  close  within  call ;  and  when  she 
came  back,  she  questioned  him  nothing,  after  the  fashion  of  her 
creed  and  people  ;  but  she  knew  that  his  simple  soul  had  found  its 
God,  and  got  a  comfort  from  Him.  She  felt,  herself,  a  holiness 
about  his  quiet  bedside  and  a  deep  love  and  knowledge  between 
them  that  waited — that  could  wait — a  heavenly  utterance. 

"  He  don't  talk  about  the  concerns  of  his  soul,  '  she  said  to  the 
new  minister,  coming  in  with  ghostly  consolation.  "  He  never 
did.  'Twarn't  his  way.  He  ain't  a  man  of  words,  about  any- 
thing ;  and  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so,  I  think  it's  one  of  them 
experiences  that  oughtn't  to  be  handled." 


i/2  The  Gayworthys. 

So  she  shielded  him,  and  ministered  to  him ;  demanding  noth- 
ing- ;  believing  to  the  last  in  that  which  was  unseen,  unuttered  ; 
that  "  there  was  a  good  deal  in  him  more  than  ever  came  out  ia 
\vords  ;  "  finding  so  a  nearness  and  a  mute  communion  of  which 
more  declarative  lives  may  possibly  fail.  Speech  builds  up  bar- 
riers, as  often  as  it  breaks  them  down. 

She  sat  by  him  for  hours ;  sometimes  laying  her  hand  softly 
c!  >wn  upon  the  coverlet,  and  letting  his  seek  it,  as  it  always  would  ; 
and  the  spring  breath  and  music  in  the  air  spoke  gently  for  them 
both ;  and  there  was  "  something  between  them  then,  that  was 
more  than  talk." 

Prudence  Vorse  came  up  and  stopped  at  the  hillside  farm. 
Wealthy  was  simply  glad  and  thankful  to  have  her.  Not  over 
thankful  in  words ,  it  was  no  more  than  she  would  have  done  her- 
self for  another.  She  accepted  frankly  the  help  and  companion- 
ship; and  the  days  passed  by,  not  without  their  pleasantness, — 
their  cheer  even, — in  this  lonely  mountain  home,  wherein  one  was 
soon  to  be  left,  for  aught  that  was  spoken  of  yet,  alone — utterly. 

Was  that  last  a  true  word  ?  Was  she  really  to  be  more  alone 
than  heretofore  ?  I  hardly  think  so.  The  unworded  intercourse 
between  this  husband  and  wife  was  shortly  to  be  lifted  up, — made 
greater  and  surer;  that  was  all.  For  this  they  must  relinquish  the 
outward  community  of  work  and  daily  visible  living.  The  puny 
and  the  narrow  for  the  full  and  grand.  I  think  Wealthy  felt  it  so, 
in  her  untranscendental  way. 

"  He's  going  where  he'll  have  it  all  ;  all  we  both  want,  and 
never  got  here ;  and  he  won't  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  if  he  can  help 
me,  I  know.  'Twouldn't  be  Jaazaniah,  if  he  did.  He'll  have  me 
in  mind  in  the  old  still  way  ;  and  there'll  be  thoughts  between  us. 
He'll  get  the  start  of  me  ;  and  that'll  be  right.  It'll  be  my  work 
to  keep  on  after  him." 

It  was  more  like  a  new  bridal  to  her  than  a  parting  at  a  grave. 

People  came  up  to  see  her  sometimes,  and  wondered  at  "  the 
calm  way  she  took  it."  "  But  then,"  they  said  to  each  other. 
"  She  couldn't  be  expected  to  feel  it  as  if  'twas  anybody  else  but 
Jaazaniah  Hoogs."  Neither  her  sorrow  nor  her  joy  could  these 
strangers  intermeddle  with. 

There  came  a  day  that  brought  a  positive  change. 

Jaazaniah  was  too  feeble  this  morning  to  be  lifted  up  against 
his  pillows,  and  look  out  and  watch,  as  was  his  wont,  the  breaking 
day,  They  turned  him  toward  the  open  window  and  let  the 
breeze  come  in  upon  his  face.  He  needed  it.  His  breath  was 
weak  and  painful.  His  eye  had  lost  something  of  the  gentle  con- 
sciousness that  had  dwelt  in  its  expression,  and  only  lighted, 
momentarily,  when  it  fell  upon  his  wife.  The  "  rough "  was  well 
off  now.  The  thin  hands  that  had  lain  helpless  for  so  many 
months  had  grown  white  and  tender,  whiter  and  tenderer  than 
Wealthy's,  now.  The  lines  of  his  face  had  softened  ;  and  the  sun 


The  Rough  Off.  173 

color  had  worn  off.  "  He  looked  so  like  his  mother,"  Wealthy 
said. 

As  night  came  on,  the  eyes  were  closed  in  seeming  unconscious- 
ness ;  not  a  sleep ;  and  so  he  lay,  without  other  change,  through 
\he  hours  till  morning  again ;  the  breath  easier  but  fainter  still, 
Wealthy  and  Prudence  watching  by  his  side.  Wealthy  had  had 
no  sleep  the  previous  night  either. 

"  You'd  better  go  and  lie  down  awhile,  in  the  next  room," 
said  Prue,  when  she  came  back  from  her  bit  of  breakfast  and 
brought  Wealthy  the  cup  of  tea  she  would  not  go  away  for.  "  I'll 
call  you  if  there's  any  alteration.  He  isn't  conscious  now,  and 
he  won't  miss  you." 

Wealthy  looked  up.  The  gray  eyes  were  both  keen  and  deep, 
as  they  fastened  themselves  on  Prue's. 

"  You  don't  know  that,"  she  said  in  a  low,  strong  t&ne. 
"  Neither  you  nor  I  can  tell  what  his  mind  may  be  about  while  his 
body's  sinking.  I  believe  he  -would  miss  me.  I  believe  it's  a 
comfort  to  him,  having  me  here.  And  I  shall  stay."  Still  to  the 
last  interpreting  his  soul  for  him. 

And  so  she  stayed.     Stayed,  and  had  her  reward. 

The  stupor  passed  off  from  him  before  he  died.  He  lifted  the 
eyelids  they  had  thought  would  never  lift  again.  The  eyes  found 
Wealthy's  face,  as  having  known  where  to  look  for  it.  There  was 
the  strange,  deep  imploringness  in  them  that  eyes  have,  sometimes, 
taking  their  last  look  of  earth. 

Wealthy  leaned  down  close,  answering  them  with  that  in  her 
own  which  only  the  dying  eyes  might  know  of. 

The  pale  lips  tried  to  move.  The  rough  was  nearly  off  forever, 
now,  and  the  spirit  dared  to  speak. 

"  You  ain't  afraid,  dear?"  Wealthy  whispered. 

"  No,"  came  the  faint  reply,  "  It's  only  going  to  bed  in  the 
dark.  God  knows  when  it's  time.  He'll  wake  me  up  in  the 
morning.  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  I  pray — " 

"  I  pray  the  Lord  thy  soul  to  keep,"  said  Wealthy,  clearly  and 
solemnly,  falling  softly  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

So  their  two  souls  stood  hand  in  hand  before  the  Father,  in 
that  moment  of  their  seeming  separation.  So  there  was  one 
beautiful  uttered  word  between  them  at  the  last. 

Now,  she  was  newly  wedded  in  the  spirit.  Now,  it  was  "  only 
her  work  to  keep  on  after  him." 

She  turned  herself  about  to  her  life  again,  with  this  thought  at 
its  core. 

"  I  like  to  have  you  with  me.  Stay  awhile."  She  said  this  to 
Prudence  Vorse  the  day  after  the  funeral. 

"  I'll  stay  till  you  send  me  off  again,"  said  the  straightforward 
Prue.  "  It's  no  place  for  one  woman  alone  ;  but  it's  a  good  place 
for  two.  And  I've  got  enough  to  keep  up  my  end,  if  you  like  to  let 
it  be  so." 


174  The  Gayworthys. 

This  was  all  they  said  about  it ;  and  the  two  women  henceforth 
made  their  home  together. 

"  It's  curious  how  pat  things  work  in,  after  all,"  said  the 
neighbors.  "  There's  always  a  jog  for  every  nick.  I  don't  be- 
lieve Prudence  Vorse  or  Wealthy  Hoogs  was  ever  so  snug  in  all 
their  lives  before." 

They  were  snug,  and  content ;  they  sat  together  in  the  sum- 
mer twilights  on  the  still  mountain  side,  when  their  day's  work 
was  done,  and  sent  their  thoughts  out,  each  her  own  way  ;  the 
one  upon  the  far  restless  deep, — the  other  into  the  infinitely  near 
eternal  Peace.  They  both  believed  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MIXED   NEWS  ;   FROM   HOME. 

"  THERE  now,  I'm  happy  !  but  'twon't  last,"  said  Huldah,  letting 
every  limb  droop  and  every  finger  drop  as  she  sank,  utterly 
wearied,  into  her  low  wooden  rocking-chair  in  the  doorway,  luxu- 
riating for  an  instant  in  that  beginning* of  rest  that  only  excessive 
weariness  can  know. 

The  young  baby  was  got  to  sleep  at  last,  and  laid  in  the  cradle 
just  within.  The  two  old  babies  had  been  washed  and  put  to 
bed  in  the  little  bedroom  off  the  kitchen,  built  so  after  the  New 
England  fashion.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  house  to  keep  :  only  these 
two  rooms  and  a  bit  of  a  best  room,  at  right  angles ;  but  it  was 
hard  housekeeping  for  all  that,  out  here  upon  a  prairie-edge  in 
Illinois.  Hard  housekeeping !  and  the  children  had  come  fast. 
No  wonder  Huldah  felt  the  faint  blessedness  now  and  then  that 
only  breathes  over  one  with  momentary  relaxation,  when  every 
muscle  has  been  strained  as  on  a  rack. 

"  Gin  out  ?  Well,  set  and  rest,"  said  Eben,  cheerily.  He  was 
sprinkling  and  folding  for  her  from  the  big  basket  full  of  clothes, 
large  and  little,  that  the  hard-worked  wife  and  mother  had  got 
mostly  through  the  wash  that  morning,  before  the  nestlings  had 
begun  to  peep.  He  did  not  look  unmanly  either,  the  stout  farmer, 
so  employed.  He  had  gathered  them  all  up  from  bush  and  grass 
and  line,  when  he  came  home  from  the  early  cornfield  to  his  din- 
ner. By  and  by  when  Huldah  had  "  set  and  rested  "  for  a  while, 
they  would  stretch  the  sheets  together.  This  they  did  for  old 
time's  sake.  There  were  only  two  full-sized  ones,  and  the  stretch- 
ing might  have  been  done  without ;  but  there  was  never  a  Mon- 
day night  that  they  were  not  duly  measured  and  pulled  and  folded 
as  of  old ;  and  always  when  it  was  done,  Eben  would  lean  down 
to  his  wife's  ear,  with  the  same  whispered  question,  "  Ain't  you 
'  horry '  yet,  Huldy  ?  Hadn't  I  better  have  come  alone  ?  And 


Mixed  News  ;  From  Home.  175 

quoting  still  from  the  old  homestead  tradition  of  Joanna's  child- 
hood, Huldah  would  say,  saucily,  "  Hadn't  you  better  hold  your 
tongue  ?  When  I  horry,  I  let  'oo  know.'  "  Varied  in  their  phras- 
ing sometimes,  question  and  answer ;  but  this  always  the  sub- 
stance and  the  joke.  There  are  some  little  foolish  reiterations  that 
grow  sacred. 

Huldah  was  tired  :  she  was  that  every  evening  of  her  life ;  but 
she  was  not  sorry.  She  sat  looking  out  under  the  scattered  oaks, 
towards  the  east, — they  had  built  their  rude  dwelling  with  its  face 
toward  home, — and  watched  the  reflected  lights  that  lingered  there, 
and  remembered  that  it  had  been  dark  an  hour  and  more  already 
in  Hilbury.  Somehow,  her  thoughts  went  back  there  more  strongly 
than  usual,  to-night.  The  early  spring  weather  took  them  thither. 
It  had  been  one  of  the  harbinger-days  of  the  kindling  year.  The 
air  was  mild  at  the  open  doorway,  and  the  swelling  buds  of  the 
oaks  showed  life  in  every  sturdy  limb.  The  woods  would  be 

freen  shortly ;  and  the  broad  prairie  jeweled  with  its  flowers, 
he  thought  involuntarily  of  other  spring-times :  we  always  do, 
when  this  primal  joy  revisits  us.  She  was  in  a  maze  of  recol- 
lections and  imaginations  when  Eben  came  to  the  bottom  of  the 
basket,  where  the  sheets  lay. 

"  Most  ready,  little  woman  ?  or  shall  I  roll  'em  up,  athout  the 
pullin'  ?  " 

He  knew  she  would  never  let  him  do  that.  If  she  had  "  gin  out " 
to  such  degree,  he  would  have  dropped  all  in  dismay,  caught  the 
horse,  and  galloped  bareback  two  miles  to  the  nearest  neighbor, 
and  four  more  for  the  doctor. 

So  they  pulled  and  folded,  and  ended  with  the  old  query  and 
reply,  as  I  have  said.  Then  Eben  put  his  strong  arm  round  the 
little  woman's  buxom  waist,  and  drew  her  to  the  doorway,  and 
they  both  stood  there  and  looked  out  together. 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  horse's  tread  along  the  turfy  track, 
away  up  under  the  trees  in  the  magnificent  "  oak-opening." 

"  It's  Grueby  coming  home  from  Waterloo,"  said  Eben.  "  He'll 
have  news,  mebbe." 

Neighbor  Grueby  trotted  up,  on  his  heavy,  white  farm-horse, 
and  held  out  something  in  his  hand.  A  letter. 

"  For  me?"  said  Eben,  coming  to  the  horse's  side. 

"  You,  or  your  wife  ;  it's  all  the  same  I  reckon." 

"  Come  in,  farmer  ;  won't  ye  ?  " 

"  Never  stop  when  I  bring  letters  ;  too  much  company's  worse'n 
none." 

"  What's  the  news  ?  An'  how's  your  folks  ?  " 

"  My  folks  is  all  well,  thank  ye.  There's  your  paper,  I'd  nigh 
forgot  it.  News?  Nothin'  but  'manifest  destiny,'  and  takin'  in 
Texas.  Five  new  Slave  States !  Sounds  big,  don't  it  ?  But  I 
reckon,  Farmer  Hatch,  we  may  hurry  in  't  the  large  end  o'  the 
horn,  an'  have  to  crawl  out  at  the  small  one,  by'n  by  !  Manifest 


176  The  Gayworthys. 

destiny  may  turn  out  sumthin'  mighty  pretty — and  then,  again  it 
mayn't !    Gee  up  ! " 

Neighbor  Grueby  rode  on,  and  Eben  and  Huldah  sat  down  to- 
gether on  the  great  oak  log  that  served  in  place  of  a  doorstone 
before  their  dwelling,  to  read  their  letter. 

MRS.  HULDAH  HATCH, 

Care  of  Ebenezer  Hatch,  Esq. 
Graysonville, 

Co.  Illinois. 

"  Looks  dreadful  business-like  an'  important,  don't  it,  Huldah  ?  " 
said  Eben,  turning  it  over.  "  Esquire  !  Lucky  it  didn't  make  a 
misgo  of  it,  superscribed  like  that ! — Here — it's  yourn  !  " 

Huldah  took  it,  and  sat  holding  it,  almost  absently. 

"  Well,  ain't  you  goin*  t'  open  it  ?  'Cause  the  daylight  's  goin', 
an'  the  night-damps  comin'  on,  an'  I  shall  have  you  with  the 
fever  'n  ager,  nex'  thing,  if  I  don't  take  care !  " 

"  Eben,"  said  Huldah,  gravely, "  somethin's  happened  to  home ! " 

"  Things  are  allers  happenin' !  The  world  keeps  turnin'  round. 
You  can't  help  that." 

It  was  clear  Eben  was  more  curious  than  anxious.  So  Huldah 
opened  the  letter. 

She  held  it  so  that  Eben  could  look  over,  as  she  read.  Eben 
made  no  demur  at  availing  himself  of  the  privilege  mutely  offered. 

The  clear,  clerkly  hand,  large  and  strong,  showed  plain,  even  in 
the  twilight.  They  read  it  through,  and  then  Huldah  laid  it  down 
upon  her  knees,  and  the  two  looked  in  each  other's  faces. 

It  was  strangely  mixed  intelligence.  Something  to  be  sorry  for, 
something  to  be  glad  over.  Their  simple  hearts  hardly  knew  which 
feeling  to  give  way  to  first.  Five  hundred  dollars  was  a  great  deal 
of  money.  More  than  Eben  Hatch  and  Huldah  had  laid  by 
together  before  they  married.  But  then,  the  good  old  Doctor  was 
dead. 

"  I  suppose  we  mightn't  ever  have  seen  him  again  in  this  world 
if  he'd  lived  to  the  age  of  Methuselum,"  said  Eben,  philosophically, 
after  a  few  minutes.  "  It's  a  long  stretch  atween  here  an'  Hilbury 
hills,  and  I  don't  expect  hardly  we'll  ever  fetch  it,  now,  Huldy." 

"  It'll  pay  off  your  mortgage  and  set  you  clear  with  cousin 
Joshaway,"  said  Huldah,  thoughtfully.  "  And  help  to  buy  that 
pair  of  steers,  besides." 

"  They'll  miss  him  awfully  round  there,  won't  they  ?  Fact, 
there's  nothin'  now  to  hender  their  all  goin'  's  I  see." 

"  I  can't  seem  to  feel  it  's  I  oughter."  said  Huldah,  with  a  pang 
of  conscience.  "  I  can't  help  bein'  glad  for  you,  Eben.  It's  an 
awful  temptation  havin'  money  left  yuu.  I  s'pose  it's  lucky  't  ain't 
no  more,  or  my  heart  would  have  hardened  up  like  old  Pharaoh's. 
Land  sake,  Eben  !  what  do  folks  do  that  git  their  thousands  ?  " 


Mixed  News  ;  From  Home.  177 

"  He  meant  we  should  be  glad,  Huldah.  It's  jest  what  he  did 
it  fur.  But  it's  your  money  ;  't  ain't  mine.' 

"  What  kinder  difference  does  that  make,  I  should  like  to 
know  !  "  Huldah  spoke  in  capitals. 

"  It  don't  seem  right,  exac'ly,  for  me  to  put  it  inter  land  an' 
stock.  I  might  git  into  diffikelty  an'  lose  it  all.  It  oughter  be  tied 
up  somehow  fer  you  'n  the  children." 

"  Eben  Hatch  !  You  jest  hold  your  tongue  !  You're  fairly 
ridick'lous.  We  got  merried  cause  we  expected  to  live  together, 
didn't  we?  Well,  that's  the  expectation  I'm  goin'  on.  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  calc'late  on  any  other  condition  yet  awhile.  I'm  a  wife  ; 
I  ain't  a  widder.  If  I  was,  I  know  Whose  business  't  would  be  to 
take  care  o'  me  an'  the  fatherless ;  now  it's  yourn.  An'  all  we've 
got  is  to  go  to  help.  I  guess  'twould  be  a  pretty  fixin'  o'  things 
to  lay  away  money  against  you're  used  up  and  gone  ;  and  to  leave 
you  hampered  up  with  worries  enough  to  bring  it  to  pass  !  I  don't 
want  to  kill  no  two  birds  that  fashion.  More  'n  that,  it  spiles  a 
woman  t'  have  property  'f  her  own.  It's  queer,  but  a  woman  don't 
value  anything  else, — comfort,  or  health,  or  good  looks,  or  what 
all ;  she  lets  'em  all  go,  an'  never  thinks  twice  of  it ;  but  she  can't 
stand  havin'  money  separate.  Don't  let  me  ever  see  it,  Eben,  or 
realize  anything  about  it.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  I  know.  You'd 
never  hear  the  last  of  it.  I  don't  see  why  the  Doctor  didn't  leave 
it  to  you  straight  out." 

"  It  was  left  to  your  mother,  Huldy.  Here's  the  clause  in  the 
will,  copied  right  off.  '  To  Serena  Brown,  or,  she  not  surviving,  to 
her  daughter  Huldah.'  Huldy,  that  will  was  made  more  'n  a 
dozen  year  ago  !  " 

"  To  be  sure.  It's  the  will  my  mother  was  knowin'  to.  I  never 
thought  of  that." 

"  Nor  I,  nuther,"  said  Eben,  emphatically.  "  But  I  think  on't 
now.  An'  it  jest  reminds  me  of  somethin'  else.  Do  you  remember 
that  air  kite-bob,  Huldy  ?  " 

"  That  what  ?  " 

"  That  bit  of  paper  that  we  put  our  names  to  in  the  Doctor's 
study  the  night  of  the  strawberry  party,  five  year  ago." 

"  Certain.     But  what's  that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  kite,  an'  that  air  was  the  bob  ;  the  big  bob  at  the 
tail  end,  Huldy,  you  may  depend  on  't.  An'  if 't  warn't  never  tied 
on,  the  kite  no  business  to  be  flew  athout  it !  " 

"  Well,  what  then  ?     What  concern  is  it  of  ours  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Huldy.     I  must  think  it  over." 

The  baby  cried,  and  Huldah  went  in.  Eben  stayed  by  the 
threshold,  thinking.  He  came  to  a  conclusion,  apparently,  at  last; 
for  he  said  to  himself,  "  That's  what  I'll  do.  It's  workin'  in  the 
dark,  and  it  mayn't  fetch  it;  for  she's  thunderin'  sly.  But  it's 
the  best  I  know  of,  and  I'll  do  it." 

The  result  was  this  letter  that  Jane  Gair  got  ten  days  after : — 


I'/'d  The  Gayworthys. 

MRS.  REUBEN  GAIR  :— 

This  is  to  send  our  respects  to  you,  Huldy's  and  mine,  and  our 
sincere  condolements.  We  were  sorry  enough  to  hear  of  the 
Doctor's  death,  though  he  did  remember  Huldy  so  handsome. 
And  that  is  what  has  set  me  out  to  write  this  letter.  We  was 
notified  to  draw  on  Mr.  Reuben  Gair  at  our  convenience,  for  the 
amount  of  five  hundred  dollars  willed  to  Huldy  by  the  old  gentle- 
man. I  say  again  it  was  a  handsome  thing  of  the  Doctor,  and  we 
are  as  thankful  as  we  ought  to  be.  But  there's  one  thing  lays  in 
the  way  in  my  mind,  and  that  is  this :  whether  or  no  they've  found 
everything  that  has  to  do  with  the  settling  up.  This  money  was 
left  to  Huldy's  mother,  showing  it  was  a  old  will,  for  Widow  Brown 
died  more  than  a  dozen  year  ago.  Now,  five  year  ago  me  and 
Huldy  set  our  names  to  a  bit  of  paper  for  the  Doctor,  witnessing 
to  it.  It  might  have  had  to  do  with  the  will,  or  a  piecing  of  it  out, 
or  altering  it,  or  then  again  it  mightn't.  The  Doctor  didn't  show 
us  anything  but  his  name.  It  was  done  the  night  of  the  straw- 
berry frolic,  five  year  ago,  when  you  was  up  to  the  farm,  after  the 
folks  was  gone.  /  see  you  up  and  round  in  the  next  room  after- 
wards, and  I  thought  maybe  the  old  gentleman  might  have  been  a 
showing  it  to  you  first.  Anyway  I  suppose  you  might  know  as 
well  as  anybody  the  likeliest  place  to  look  for  it.  And  so  before 
we  do  anything  towards  the  handling  of  this  money  that  they  say 
is  ours,  I  think  it  right  to  put  you  in  mind  and  tell  you«P/ia//£*0ic 
about  it,  for  fear  as  if  there  should  turn  out  to  be  anything  over- 
looked. 

No  more  at  present  from  yours  truly, 

EBENEZER  HATCH. 

The  blood  rushed  quickly  along  her  veins  as  Mrs.  Gair  first 
glanced  this  letter  through.  Then  she  calmed  herself  and  pon- 
dered on  it.  Eben  had  written  shrewdly.  He  meant  that  she 
should  ponder.  She  wondered  just  how  much  or  how  little  he 
knew  of  this  thing.  Possibly,  all  that  she  did.  "  The  Doctor 
showed  them  nothing  but  his  name."  But  Eben  and  Huldah  had 
lived  on  in  the  house  for  six  months  after ;  and  who  could  say 
there  might  not  have  been  opportunities  for  them  as  well  as  for 
herself  ?  "  They  might  have  done  it  as  well  as  not  a  hundred 
times,  I  daresay.  And  that  would  account  for  their  being  so  ready 
with  their  information.  They're  sure  enough  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  them  for  all  their  show  of  honesty." 

There  are  persons  to  whom  you  must  demonstrate  the  impracti- 
cability of  a  meanness,  before  you  can  convince  them  that  it  has 
not  been  committed.  Could,  would,  and  should,  are  to  them  indis- 
criminate signs  of  the  potential. 

Assuming  for  granted,  then,  as  the  safest  conclusion,  that  Eben 
and  Huldah  knew  it  all,  what  course  was  she  to  take  ?  She  could 
not  pass  this  over  in  silence.  She  must  needs  say  or  do  something 


Mixed  News  ;  From  Home.  179 

in  reference  to  it,  or  the  fact  of  her  concealment  would  inevitably 
appear  and  implicate  her. 

She  took  up  the  letter  again  and  read  it  carefully.  She  was 
alone  in  her  own  room.  Her  husband  had  gone  to  his  counting 
house  for  the  afternoon.  He  had  given  it  to  her  just  as  he  left 
home,  having  forgotten  it  before. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  He  knew  she  had  received  it.  He 
knew  it  must  relate  to  the  business  of  the  legacy.  She  would  have 
to  read  it — show  it — to  him.  She  dared  not  destroy  it,  and  give 
her  own  version  in  words.  That,  of  itself,  would  be  strange  and 
suspicious.  Besides  she  had  done — she  had  intended — no  tangible 
wrong.  This  would  be  one. 

"  /  see^you  up  and  round  in  the  next  room,  afterwards,  and — 

These  words  occupied  the  first  line  of  the  second  page  of  the 
letter.  They  concerned  only  herself.  She  took  her  scissors  from 
the  basket  at  her  side,  and  cut  the  sheet  across,  carefully.  The 
date  and  address,  upon  the  first  page  were  safe  below.  She  muti- 
lated nothing  that  should  be  left.  This  was  a  happy  though^ — 
a  fortunate  practicability.  The  letter  read  connectedly,  and  safely, 
without  it. 

Then  she  took  up  the  strip  of  paper,  looking  at  those  emphasized 
words  once  more.  "  Afterwards."  Then  he  could  not  know — 
watch  her  as  he  might  have  done — that  she  knew  anything  more 
than  he.  Than  he  professed  to  know.  He  doubtless  suspected, 
but  he  could  prove  nothing,  not  even  to  his  own  certainty. 

Her  course  was  plain. 

Ebenezer  Hatch  was  under  the  impression  that  some  paper, 
signed  by  himself  and  wife,  five  years  ago,  might  be  of  a  testamen- 
tary character.  Had  any  such  been  found  ?  This  was  the  purport 
and  inquiry  of  the  letter.  She  had  only,  then,  to  submit  it  to  her 
husband  as  executor  under  the  will,  and  ask  the  question. 

Such  a  paper  might,  on  search,  be  found  ;  very  well ;  then  it 
must  be  ;  then  she  would  have  been  a  very  honest  woman  ;  and 
must  comfort  herself  with  that ;  honesty,  as  well  as  greatness,  may 
be  thrust  upon  one.  If  nothing  should  be  found,  they  might  all 
conclude  that  it  had  been  either  some  minor  transaction,  some 
formal  acknowledgment  in  an  everyday  business  matter,  whereof 
the  record  belonged  in  other  keeping ;  or  that,  of  whatever  nature, 
it  had  been  destroyed.  She — Jane  Gair — was  bound  to  be  no 
wiser  than  the  rest.  She  looked  at  herself  from  the  standpoint  of 
others,  and  judged  herself  by  what  would  be  their  knowledge. 

And,  all  the  while,  those  few  lines — that  half  page  of  her  father's 
own  handwriting — stood  clear  in  her  memory.  She  knew — she 
only,  of  any  living — what  he  had  once  meant,  at  least,  to  do.  But 
hers  was  a  secret  knowledge  ;  his  had  been  a  secret  intention  ;  if 
he  canceled  it  afterward,  what  right  had  she — even  were  it  pos- 
sible without  shame  and  self-disgrace — to  betray  a  private,  tran- 
sient purpose,  never  confided  to  her,  learned  only  by  an  accident. 


180  The  Gayworthys. 

and  that  no  existing  record  could  substantiate  ?  She  wished 
heartily — even  with  a  resentfulness — that  the  accident  had  never 
happened.  She  felt  ill-used  of  fate,  that  she  had  been  led  into  this 
annoying  cognizance.  Somehow,  she  was  forever  being  forced  to 
feel  responsible,  when  she  would  rather  far  leave  all  to  its  own 
working. 

"  If  he  canceled  it ! "  That  hidden  paper  might  alone  reveal 
whether  he  did  or  no.  And  that  she  could  not  tell  them  of.  She 
had  no  right  to  know  of  it, — she  could  not  explain  such  knowledge. 
It  might  be  nothing,  and  she  might  go  all  her  life  with  a  self- 
reproach  that  had  no  foundation.  There  it  must  lie,  and  she  must 
doubt, — she  had  really  made  herself  think  she  did  doubt, — unless 
they  found  it.  She  almost  hoped  they  would.  Almost,  but  not 
wholly  after  all,  else  she  could  have  bidden  Reuben  search  well  the 
old  papers  in  the  case  where  they  had  found  the  will ;  she  might 
have  managed  to  be  with  him  ;  she  might  have  rediscovered  it  her- 
self. She  let  herself  slide,  half  involuntary,  into  deeper  wrong ; 
she  held  her  peace ;  she  made  herself  passive.  Her  very  soul  lied 
unto  itself  in  its  false,  bewildered  reasoning  ;  that  is  the  inherent 
retribution  of  false  souls. 

Reuben  read  the  letter  and  went  to  Hilbury.  To  his  question 
"  Did  your  father  ever  mention  anything  of  the  sort  to  you  ? " 
Jane  had  answered — "  Nothing."  Jane  Gair  had  never  told  a  lie. 

She  stayed  at  home ;  Say  was  not  well,  it  was  out  of  her  power 
to  go.  The  thing  had  been  settled  for  her  ;  she  must  wait. 

Up  at  the  old  house  they  wondered  at  Eben's  communication — 
Joanna  and  Rebecca  and  Reuben.  Prudence  Vorse  had  already 
gone  over  to  the  Hoogs's  when  this  happened.  Then  they  looked 
over  again  all  the  miscellaneous  papers  in  the  Doctor's  tall  secre- 
tary-desk, that  held  the  papers  of  generations.  They  emptied  its 
pigeon  holes  ;  ran  over  files  of  bills,  packets  of  letters ;  examined 
even  the  bundles  of  yellow  documents  in  the  panel  cupboard  ; 
opened  again  the  ancient  letter-case  where  the  will  had  been  ; 
sorted  the  contents  of  its  larger  pocket  that  told  the  tales  of  old 
absences  and  intimacies  and  courtships  ;  laid  them  back  reverently, 
and  found  nothing. 

Greater  secrets  than  this  have  lain  as  shallowly  concealed.  Men 
have  walked  for  generations  over  hidden  treasures  that  a  spade- 
plunge  would  unearth ;  murder  screens  its  crimson  stain  with 
flimsy  cover,  and  moves  unchallenged  among  the  living ;  science 
stumbles  over  truth  that  waits  to  be  unveiled ;  invention  lays  her 
finger  alongside  the  spring  she  seeks  to  touch,  and  misses  it.  All 
things  lie  near  enough,  if  we  knew  but  how  to  look. 

Mr.  Gair  answered  Eben's  letter. 

MR.  HATCH, — 

Dear  Sir  : — Yours  of  the  — th  ultimo  was  duly  received.  A  re- 
examination  of  all  the  papers  left  by  the  late  Dr.  Gayworthy  has 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  181 

been  made,  and  nothing  of  the  description  you  refer  to  has  been 
brought  to  light.  We  can  only  conclude  that  it  was  either  not  of 
a  nature  to  affect  the  disposal  of  his  estate,  or  that  he  saw  fit  at 
some  subsequent  time  to  destroy  it. 

The  legacy  to  Mrs.  Hatch  lies  ready,  subject  to  your  draft. 

I  am,  etc., 

Your  Obt.  Servt., 
REUBEN  GAIR. 

Mrs.  Gair  said  to  herself,  when  her  husband  told  her  of  the 
thorough  search  and  its  result — 

"  Of  course,  whatever  it  was,  they  must  have  found  it  now.  And 
it  turned  out  to  be  nothing ;  just  as  I  supposed." 

So  she  told  herself,  asking  no  questions  ;  and  made  believe  to  be 
quite  innocent  and  easy  in  her  mind.  Laying  something  asleep 
there  which  would  surely  waken  none  the  less  at  intervals  her 
whole  life  long. 

She  made  the  most  now  of  her  mess  of  pottage.  She  flourished 
in  her  fashionable  mourning,  and  in  her  self-conscious  dignity  as 
an  heiress.  She  fancied  all  Selport  knew  that  this  was  what  her 
crape  meant. 

Now  if  Mrs.  Topliff  noticed  whether  it  were  black  or  blue,  it 
was  as  much  as  she  did.  As  to  the  death  it  stood  for,  it  scarcely 
entered  into  her  ideas  that  people  of  that  sort  had  fathers  to 
lose. 

And  forty  thousand  dollars  !  Why,  if  she  had  even  heard  of  it, 
what  would  that  have  been  in  the  ears  of  the  woman  who  inherited 
a  quarter  of  a  million  ;  whose  husband  was  reputed  worth  a  quarter 
of  a  million  more  ? 

Poor  Jane  Gair !  She  bit  the  ashes  of  her  delusion,  and  knew  not 
even  that  they  were  ashes.  She  put  the  price  of  sin  in  her  bosom, 
and  only  the  evil  spirit  that  had  tempted  and  betrayed  her  knew 
that  it  was  turning  already  to  dust  and  withered  leaves. 

Ebenezer  Hatch  was  as  fully  persuaded  as  ever  that  there  had 
been  something  to  find  out,  if  he  could  only  "have  fetched  it." 

And  all  went  on  their  several  ways,  and  these  things  bided  their 
time. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS. 

THERE  is  a  music  that  only  comes  in  the  pauses  of  life.  When 
the  deafening  pulsations  of  quick  joy,  and  keen  sorrow,  and  rest- 
less uncertainty  and  eager  hope,  are  laid  asleep  for  awhile,  and 
nothing  stirs  them.  When  the  every-day  current  of  a  common 


1 82  The  Gayworthys. 

living  bears  us  on,  and  the  weeks  and  months  and  years  glide  by, 
each  one  with  a  look  so  like  the  last  that  we  forget  to  count  them, 
or  to  remember  that  we  are  growing  old.  When  the  whir  of  the 
loom  that  weaves  our  life-story  grows  monotonous ;  when  the 
shuttle  runs  quietly,  and  makes  no  leaps  that  throw  up  vivid  threads 
in  bright,  irregular  spaces,  flashing  out,  so,  the  design  that  makes 
it  individual.  When,  in  and  out,  the  fibers  intertwine,  and  mix  a 
common,  homespun  web,  like  all  the  rest  around  us. 

There  is  music  between  the  acts  ;  when  the  elements  of  what- 
ever in  our  lives  might  combine  into  great  utterances  and  sweeps 
of  mighty  melody, — into  wonderful  chorals  and  harmonies,  if  the 
divine  touch  were  given  breathe  low,  one  to  another,  whispering, 
only.  We  are  here  ;  we  are  waiting.  It  is  an  Eolian  thrill,  that 
tells  of  all  possible  ecstasies  and  passions ;  yet  is  sweet  and  calm  • 
a  present  peace  .  a  repose,  it  may  be,  after  wails  and  discords  that 
have  gone  over  us. 

The  simplest  life  knows  this ;  perhaps  it  is  only  to  a  simple  life 
it  comes.  It  came  to  the  home  in  Hilbury,  between  the  hope  and 
pain  of  youth,  and  whatever  ripened  of  these,  later;  it  was  the 
gentle  ripening  itself  as  it  went  on. 

Let  me  show  you  if  I  can. 

It  is  twelve  years  since  our  quiet  chronicle  began.  The  old  Gay- 
worthy  mansion  stands  as  it  stood  then,  pre-eminent  in  its  tradi- 
tional mellow  tint,  among  the  dusky-red  farmhouses  about  it. 
There  is  little  altered  here,  in  the  Center;  where  the  old  spire 
rises  as  it  rose,  not  twelve,  only,  but  a  hundred  years  agone  ;  where 
the  'churchyard,  gray  with  stone  and  green  with  turf,  holds  its 
century  of  dead  ;  where  the  farms  lie  out.  field  beside  field,  as  they 
lay  when  the  Gayworthy  house  was  fresh  and  new  ;  owned  in  the 
same  names,  mostly,  even  ;  or,  if  not,  still  spoken  of  by  the  same 
old  family  titles  wherewith  they  had  first  been  christened. 

Changes  had  gone  on  all  around,  had  crept  within  the  very 
township ;  down  at  the  Bridge,  the  quiet,  primitive  neighborhood 
was  gone ;  and  the  gentle  singing  of  the  river  to  itself  was  gone, 
— lost ;  and  the  green  forest  that  swept  its  robe  down  to  the  very 
borders  of  the  stream  was  gone ;  at  least,  had  had  its  skirts  cut, 
like  the  old  woman  in  the  rhyme,  till,  whether  it  were  itself  or  not, 
like  the  same  bewildered  ancient,  it  could  scarcely  tell ;  and  in 
place  of  all  this,  was  a  great,  whizzing,  roaring,  whirling,  crashing, 
crowded,  dusty  factory  village  grown  up  ,  a  conglomeration  of 
steam  and  wheels,  and  fire,  and  shrieks ;  whence  the  railroad 
reached  out,  east  and  west,  its  iron  length,  grasping  a  great  city,  a 
hundred  miles  away,  at  either  end. 

But  this  was  more  than  three  miles  distant,  still ;  it  would  hardly 
creep  this  way  yet  awhile ;  it  might  go  up  and  down  the  river  along 
the  rattling  vertebras  of  that  backbone  of  iron,  which  joint  after 
joint  stretched  itself  those  hundreds  of  miles  up  and  down  the 
country,  a  marvelous  inception  of  growth  that  would  throw  out  its 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  183 

limbs  afterward,  and  develop  bit  by  bit  its  huge  skeleton,  clasping 
in  its  prone  embrace  whole  States. 

As  yet  the  old  Gayworthy  farm  lay  in  its  primeval  quietude, 
save  for  the  far-rending  echo  of  the  steam-whistle  that  divided  the 
air  sharply  at  certain  intervals,  and  the  rumble  that  came  after 
through  the  hills,  telling  of  that  strange,  swift  intercourse,  right 
and  left,  with  the  busy  world  that  lay  about  its  stillness. 

And  the  two  sisters  lived  here  still.  Changed  little  by  the  years, 
any  more  than  the  old  home,  but  exactly  because  so  little  changed, 
grown,  like  the  old  home  and  its  neighborhood,  to  seem,  if  brought 
suddenly  to  light  and  contrast,  somewhat  behind  the  times  they 
lived  in. 

Rebecca  was  thirty-one  ;  Joanna  just  beyond  her  in  years  ;  they 
had  crossed  the  line  of  youth  into  old  maidenhood  ,  nobody  looked 
any  longer  for  change  in  them  ;  they  would  count  their  years  out 
as  people  did  here  among  the  hills  ;  they  would  be  the  '  old  Miss 
Gayworthys  "  as  Joanna  had  prophesied  to  herself. 

Rebecca  had  the  same  sweet  saintlike  face,  wanting  something, 
perhaps,  that  a  broader  life  might  have  kindled  in  it.  Her  ideas 
also  had  their  gentle,  limited  range,  wakening  to  the  touch  of  all 
small,  local  sympathies  ;  cramped  and  narrow,  people  of  larger 
interests  might  say ;  yet  this  want,  this  cramp,  were  only  earth- 
ward ;  she  had  a  secret  outlook  toward  the  infinite ;  on  the  side  of 
God  her  soul  lay  open,  and  her  thought  rayed  wide. 

She  had  never  changed  the  fashion  of  her  hair,  even ;  put 
straightly  back, — a  little  thinner,  it  was  now,  over  the  forehead, 
and  turned  up  behind  in  the  same  simple  knot.  Prim?  yes,  per- 
haps so,  but  sweet  also,  as  a  late  white  summer  pink,  with  no  pro- 
fusion or  set-off  about  it,  only  profuse  in  the  fragrant  life  that 
scatters  from  it,  viewlessly,  and  makes  a  blessedness  around. 

Joanna  was  odd,  quick,  trenchant,  and  emphatic,  as  of  old  ;  full 
of  little  merry  sarcasms  and  abruptnesses ;  you  would  think  her 
life  lay  in  looking  on  at  life ;  she  had  her  own  secret, — a  living 
secret  still,— leavening  all  that  was  unseen  and  shaping  her  inmost 
experience  and  growth  as  God  saw  them.  She  looked  bright  and 
young,  younger  than  Rebecca,  even,  who  had  the  youth  of  seraphs, 
that  is  eternally  old  also  ;  Rebecca  had  never  been  young  with  the 
mere  bloom  of  earth. 

Another  of  Joanna's  self-prophecies  also  had  come  true;  she 
"grew  fat  "  ;  not  obese,  but  round  and  jolly.  It  "  turned  to  that," 
as  she  had  said.  She  might  as  well  be  merry  and  quick  ;  it  was 
the  only  outside  bearing  for  her.  Pining  melancholy  had  nothing 
to  do  with  her  constitution.  Her  heart  might. break,  but  it  would 
be  more  likely  to  end  with  a  dropsy,  than  an  atrophy;  on  the 
whole,  she  preferred  to  keep  herself  healthy  ;  this  good  sense  also 
was  constitutional. 

The  old  house  was  a  pleasant  place  to  come  to,  under  the  rule 
of  these  two.  It  was  quaintly  and  cheerily  ordered.  There  were 


184  The  Gayworthys. 

plenty  and  kindness  there ;  there  was  speckless  purity  ;  you  had  a 
feeling  that  is  only  had  in  such  old  houses,  that  anything  whatever 
might  come  forth  for  delectation  from  its  fragrant  cupboards,  its 
teeming  presses.  All  Hilbury  was  glad  when  the  sisters  gave  a 
tea-party ;  the  art  of  strawberry  short-cake  had  not  been  forgotten  ; 
there  was  many  another  dainty  art  that  had  its  season.  There 
was  no  need  or  caprice  of  sickness  that  was  not  sure  to  be  sup- 
plied from  hence. 

Old  neighbor  Hartshorne — living  still,  but  very  old  and  feeble 
— knew  these  dainties  well.  Wine  of  elderberry,  blackberry,  and 
currant;  jellies  of  marvelous  strength-giving;  dishes  of  dexterous 
compounding,  that  Mary  Makepeace  could  only  lift  her  eyelids 
over ;  came  like  fairy  gifts  to  the  old  man's  board  and  store.  Not 
officiously,  or  overburdeningly  ;  there  were  kindnesses  accepted — 
even  asked  for — in  return.  Gabriel  came  over  in  the  twilights,  and 
went  down  the  fields  and  talked  their  farming  over  with  them  ;  he 
rented  some  lots  that  they  did  not  care  to  use ;  he  had  man's 
counsel  and  a  ready  hand  for  them  in  all  the  emergencies  of  their 
feminine  administration ;  It  was  a  "  comfortable  friendliness." 
Was  there  ever  a  sigh  in  the  heart  of  either  that  this  was  all  ? 

Sarah  Gair  waked  one  spring  morning — blissfully  happy  for  the 
hour — in  the  old  "  red  room  "  at  Hilbury.  She  had  come  at  night 
when  it  was  too  late  to  take  in  all  the  familiar  pleasantness. 
She  opened  her  eyes  now  almost  at  the  first  dawn,  listening  with  a 
joy  of  abundant  content  and  satisfaction  to  the  crowing  of  the 
cocks  from  farm  to  farm.  She  had  come  to  stay  for  the  summer 
with  the  aunts.  Further  than  this  summer — away  from  it — back 
or  forward — Say  did  not  care  to  look.  It  held  in  it  a  concentra- 
tion of  all  delight  and  hope.  Other  hopes  might  wait ;  anxieties 
and  disappointments — for  even  at  nineteen  she  had  these — were 
set  by.  It  was  "  music  between  the  acts  of  life  "  for  her.  This 
summer  was  an  aeon. 

She  had  left  school  the  summer  before ;  she  had  been  a  winter 
"  in  society  "  ;  the  society  uncertain  and  sporadic,  that  Mrs.  Gair 
had  scrambled  into  relation  with. 

Say  had  had  a  glimpse  of  fashionable  life  ;  not  a  full,  long,  every- 
day look,  as  some  girls  had,  she  knew  ;  just  enough  to  make  her 
feel  she  only  half  lived  ;  just  enough  to  make  her  doubt  whether 
she  most  longed  for  more,  or  hated  it  altogether.  There  were 
wearisome,  companionless  hours  ;  her  mother  was  capricious,  irri- 
table ;  Say  felt  she  valued  her  more  for  the  opinion  she  could  win 
of  others  than  for  her  intrinsic  dearness  to  her  as  her  child.  This 
contradictoriness, — this  wordless  disappointment, — this  lack  of 
sympathy, — checked  her  exuberant  youth  ;  thwarted  its  life ;  made 
her  begin,  as  the  spring  came  on,  to  look  pale  and  thin. 

She  was  to  go  somewhere.  She  begged  for  Hilbury,  and  the 
kind  aunts.  Her  mother  said  the  sea-shore  ;  she  wanted  to  keep 
in  the  world's  track ;  to  go  where  its  leaders  went.  Say  struggled 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  185 

against  this  decision ;  she  wanted  the  sweet  country  air ;  she  didn't 
want  to  dress  and  worry  ;  and  her  father  took  her  part.  For  the 
hope  of  the  bloom  that  should  come  back  against  the  winter  Mrs. 
Gair  had  yielded  ;  for  this,  and  also  because  she  must,  when  once 
her  husband  said  the  thing.  She,  Jane, — would  go  to  the  beach ; 
the  ToplifTs  and  Semples  were  to  be  there ;  she  bore  ever  in  re- 
membrance the  proverb  that  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind.  She 
would  keep  herself  in  sight,  would  keep  a  place  warm  for  Say  ;  the 
child  would  get  tired  of  the  woods  and  hay-fields  by  and  by,  and 
come  down.  i 

For  herself  she  hardly  ever  went  to  Hilbury  now.  The  keen  air 
of  the  hills  no  longer  agreed  with  her.  It  was  too  bracing,  she 
said.  Mrs.  Gair  had  grown  nervous  and  delicate.  The  twelve 
years  past  had  changed  her  greatly  in  health  and  appearance. 
Her  face  was  no  longer  round  and  unlined  ;  it  was  graven  with  a 
deeper  record  than  that  of  twelve  ordinary  years,  lived  as  she  had 
seemed  to  live  them.  She  was  full  of  whims  ;  a  great  many  old 
habitudes  had  become  impossible  to  her.  This  of  going  to  Hil- 
bury, was  one ;  she  had  "  never  been  able  to  care  for  it  since  her 
father's  death  had  changed  all,  so  ; "  and  now,  the  mountain  winds 
must  be  eschewed.  There  was  truly  something  in  the  air  that  had 
made  the  place  unhealthful  to  her ;  there  was  a  taint  for  her,  in 
the  old  home  ;  a  dead  thing  lay  there  hidden  away  that  she  only 
knew  ;  a  reminder  of  corruption  came  with  every  breath  ;  to  none 
else — only  to  her.  She  thought  she  had  forgotten  this ;  she  had 
laid  it  back  years  ago  out  of  sight,  and  turned  away  from  it,  telling 
herself  it  was  nothing.  She  knew,  none  the  less,  that  she  should 
remember,  if  she  let  herself  glance  back.  She  pushed  all  recollec- 
tion from  her ;  she  would  not  exhume  the  old  doubt  and  argue 
over  again  what  she  had  once  settled  ;  her  whole  life  was  a  resist- 
ance ;  a  restless  seeking  for  absorption  in  other  things.  And  so, 
it  fretted  her  away.  And  by  her  side,  shadowed  also  by  the  cloud 
of  the  unknown  evil,  a  chill  upon  her  life,  she  knew  not  whence, — 
grew  her  young  daughter  ;  longing  for  a  fulness  of  joy  and  warmth 
and  love,  and  finding  it  not. 

Mr.  Gair  was  wholly  occupied  with  business.  "  Your  money  or 
your  life,"  is  the  daily  challenge  on  the  world's  highway,  to  such 
as  he.  One  or  the  other  must  be  given  up.  Mr.  Gair  made 
money,  and  gave  up  his  life — the  best  of  it.  He  loved  his  child, — 
he  labored  for  her ;  it  was  all  for  her ;  so  it  was  all  for  her  that 
Jane  had  sinned  the  old,  secret,  silent  sin  that  ate  her  soul  away, 
to-day ;  and  the  child,  meanwhile,  was  alone  in  all  the  world. 
Orphaned,  by  her  parents'  very  side. 

There  was  pure,  perfect  delight  for  her,  only  here  in  Hilbury. 

She  woke  there,  this  bright  spring  morning  in  the  old,  "  red 
room."  She  lay,  looking  and  listening.  Listening  to  the  sounds 
of  arousal  about  the  country-side  ;  the  far-off  sounds  that  make  it 
beautiful  to  listen,  where  such  may  be  heard.  In  the  city,  there 


1 86  The  Gayworthys. 

was  only  the  rumble  and  clatter  just  under  her  windows  ,  this 
smothered  in  upon  her  heavily,  by  the  close  brick  walls ;  now  and 
then  the  striking  of  a  clock,  or  the  chiming  of  a  bell  a  few  streets 
off.  Here  there  was  all  the  faint  sweet  music  that  comes  floating 
over  breadth  of  field  and  forest ;  the  wind  surging  in  the  great 
trees  ;  the  whistle  of  the  plowman,  and  his  cheery  call  to  the 
oxen,  beginning  their  day's  work  away  over  there  where  the  brown 
furrows  lay  like  a  fine-lined  carpet  over  the  sunny  side-hill ;  the 
distant  singing  of  woodbirds,  and  wandering  notes  from  high  up 
overhead ;  the  flutter  and  chirp  in  the  boughs  close  by ;  the  voice 
and  stir  of  domestic  creatures  about  house  and  farmyard ;  there 
were  only  these,  in  all  the  air ;  no  din  and  bustle  of  more  compli- 
cated life  to  drown  them;  they  came  in  pleasant  alternation,  and 
succession,  and  blending,  telling  of  space,  and  joy,  and  freedom. 
They  ministered  to  Say's  young,  asking  spirit. 

What  her  eyes  rested  on  was  as  simple,  and  pleasant,  and  quaint 
— as  peculiar  to  the  place — as  its  outdoor  tones.  The  faint  crim- 
son of  the  stained  walls ;  the  black  stenciled  diamonds  of  their 
border,  following  around,  up  and  down  and  over,  panels  and 
frames  ;  the  antique-patterned  red  and  white  chintz  that  flounced 
the  dressing-table,  and  draperied  the  windows,  and  covered  the 
great  easy-chair  that  Say  could  creep  from  side  to  side  in,  and 
hung  about  the  high-framed  bedstead  ;  the  old  "  mourning-piece  " 
of  flosswork,  over  the  mantel,  that  some  great-great-aunt  had  once 
achieved ;  the  yet  more  ancient  embroidery  that  companioned  it, 
— the  "  Arms  of  Gay  worthy  of  Yorkshire  ;  "  these  Say  never  tired 
of ;  they  rested  her.  Here  was  something  that  had  grown  with 
years  ;  that  had  been  as  she  saw  it  now,  for  lives'-lengths.  There 
was  no  hint  of  restlessness  nor  striving ;  nothing  "  bran-new,"  as 
there  was  in  Selport.  She  did  not  make  that  analysis  of  what  she 
felt,  though  ;  she  only  lay  and  drank  it  in  at  eyes  and  ears,  and  felt 
deliciously  happy. 

The  door  from  the  great  kitchen  chamber,  into  which  half  a 
dozen  rooms  opened,  moved  softly  ajar.  It  was  round  behind  the 
foot-curtains,  and  Say  could  not  see. 

"  Auntie  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  bright  little  ripple  of  gladness  in 
her  voice.  "  Which  auntie  ?  " 

She  knew  the  soft  step,  an  instant  after,  before  Aunt  Rebecca's 
gentle  eyes  looked  in  upon  her,  through  the  flung-back  curtains  at 
the  side. 

Aunt  Rebecca  had  on  a  striped  dimity  "  short-gown,"  old-fash- 
ioned for  "  dressing-sack  "  ;  she  carried  a  pile  of  fresh,  sweet-smell- 
ing damask  on  her  arm. 

"  Your  towels,  dear ;  I  thought  I  could  come  in  softly  ;  did  I 
wake  you?"  The  truth  was,  Aunt  Rebecca  could  not  wait  any 
longer  for  her  morning  look  at  the  treasure  that  had  been  put  away 
over  night,  in  the  "  red  room."  She  loved  little  Say, — who  would 
be  always  little  Say  to  her, — as  only  those  gentle  souls  who  never 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  187 

turn  their  love  on  self,  and  who  have  few  immediate  objects,  can 
lavish  their  hearts  upon  such  few. 

"  O,  I  was  wideawake,"  said  Say;  "and  have  been  for  this  great 
while.  An  hour  or  two.  Oh,  Aunt  Becsie,  it  is  so  lovely  here  ! 
And  I'm  to  stay  all — summer  !  "  The  words  came  forth  on  a  long 
breath  of  happiness. 

Aunt  Becsie  stooped  and  kissed  the  bright,  eager  lips. 

"  Get  up  when  you  like,  Say,  and  begin  to  enjoy  it.  There  are 
wheat-cakes  and  maple  syrup  for  your  breakfast.  Shall  I  hang 
these  away  ?  There  was  a  pile  of  dresses  over  the  sides  and  back 
of  the  great  chair,  that  had  lain  above  the  linen,  in  one  of  the  two 
deep  trunks  Say  had  brought  up  to  Hilbury. 

"  I'll  keep  that  pink  wrapper,  auntie,  to  put  on." 

It  was  a  dainty  thing,  with  its  rose-colored  sprays  dropped  over 
a  white  ground,  its  narrow  ruffles,  italian-ironed,  and  its  open 
skirt.  Say  always  wore  her  prettiest — not  her  finest — at  Hilbury. 
In  the  first  place,  nothing  else  seemed  to  suit  the  freshness  and 
bloom  about  her  ;  then  she  loved  dearly  to  be  one  of  the  pretty- 
things  in  the  world  ;  was  that  wrong?  And  then,  the  dear  aunts 
always  looked  at  her  so  fondly  and  admiringly  ;  and  the  country 
people  turned  after  her  as  they  met  her  by  the  way,  and  stopped 
talking,  and  clustered  nearer  as  she  came  up  into  the  church  porch 
of  a  Sunday.  Perhaps  it  was  weak, — even  reprehensible ;  but  I 
will  tell  the  whole  truth  of  Say ;  she  had  a  liking  for  this, — the 
young,  bright  thing  in  her  teens.  Nobody  cared  for  her  so  in  Sel- 
port ;  she  feh  no  such  warmth  around  her  there.  She  might  be 
fresh  and  dainty, — though  oftener  she  was  costly  and  elegant, — 
that  was  her  mother's  mistake, — but  there  was  something  else  de- 
manded that  she  did  not  reach ;  that  she  was  at  once  too  shy  and 
too  spontaneous  to  attain.  Girls  not  half  so  sweet  in  their  girlish- 
ness,  were  more  certain  of  themselves,  had  more  style,  \vere  more 
admired  ;  she  hovered  about,  of  a  circle,  but  not  fairly  in  it ;  this 
was  what  her  mother  had  got  for  her,  bargaining  away,  in  her  be- 
half, all  else ;  she  felt  little  in  her  own  eyes,  often  ;  her  very  mother 
undervalued  her,  she  knew,  wrhen  she  stood  alone,  for  ten  minutes, 
at  a  crowded  party  ;  it  was  all  a  conscious,  eager  wrestling  after 
what  must  come  unlabored  for,  to  be  of  any  worth  ;  here  in  Hilbury, 
there  was  a  place  ready  for  her,  in  all  eyes  and  hearts.  She  was 
ten  times  as  "  stylish,"  even  as  the  world  pronounces  upon  style, 
up  here  among  the  hills, — she  wore  her  graceful  robes  here,  with  a 
better  air  of  grace, — than  in  the  city.  Because,  the  doubt,  and  the 
constraint, — the  self-recollection,  save  as  a  pleasant,  abiding  sense 
of  surely  pleasing,  were  all  gone.  There  was  no  place  to  achieve, 
no  effect  to  aim  at ;  both  were  certain.  She  had  here  the  very 
thing  that  gave  tone  to  the  bearing  of  those  "  born  to  it "  in  the 
metropolitan  aristocracy.  If  her  mother  could  have  seen  her  so,  she 
would  have  wondered  at  her  ease,  her  manner, — which  was  only  no 
manner, — would  have  wondered  that  she  could  not  bring  it  with 


1 88  The  Gayworthys. 

her  to  the  town.  She  forgot,  or  never  understood  how  she  had 
trained  her  in  her  town-life,  to  a  diseased  anxiety  and  self-distrust. 

And  Say  liked  it  all ;  she  forgot  the  old  feeling  of  failure  and 
of  second-rate-ness ;  she  found  herself  of  consequence.  Not  that 
she  cared  to  be  first,  after  all;  it  was,  as  I  said,  to  be  one  of  the 
things  in  the  world  that  make  its  brightness  and  its  beauty,  and 
to  be  sure  of  it ;  to  be  set  among  them, — not  set  aside.  It  is  not 
natural  to  the  young  to  sigh  for  pre-eminence  ;  that,  to  them,  would 
be  a  solitude.  They  gravitate  to  each  other ;  they  tend  to  troops 
and  bevies ;  it  is  the  more  the  merrier,  always ;  only  there  must  be 
one  pulse  among  them  all ;  a  true  community.  They  like  uniforms 
and  bandings  ;  seats  in  rows ;  marches  in  file ;  dances  in  ring ; 
songs  in  chorus.  When  Say,  in  her  fanciful  childhood,  had  used  to 
endow  all  insensible  life  with  the  personality  of  fable, — when  she 
had  her  myths  of  trees  and  flowers  and  stones,  and  dreamed  what 
it  would  be  like  to  have  been  created  one  of  these,  her  thought  was 
always  of  one  among  a  many  ;  she  would  not  have  been  a  palm  or 
an  aloe,  or  a  cereus,  or  any  grand  and  solitary,  century-blooming 
thing,  if  she  had  known  of  such  ;  she  looked  out  on  the  early  sum- 
mer fields,  and  saw  them  golden  with  the  buttercups,  springing  up, 
closely,  on  their  slender,  elastic  stalks,  and  nodding  gayly  to  each 
other  in  the  morning  sunshine,  saying,  cheerily,  '  Here  we  are  ! ' 
and  she  would  have  been  one  of  them  ;  one  of  the  midmost  on  a 
hillside ;  she  pitied  the  poor,  scattered  things  away  out  under  the 
walls.  They  were  just  as  golden  to  be  sure ;  but  how  could  they 
feel  it  so?  Any  more  than  she  could,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  "good 
society  "  of  Selport  ?  She  did  not  care  to  be  a  double  buttercup, 
even  here  in  Hilbury ;  she  did  not  wear  her  finest,  as  I  said.  But 
she  made  herself  fresh,  and  pretty,  and  dainty  ;  she  had  nothing 
else  to  do  ;  and  she  found  it  worth  her  while  ;  love  and  admiration 
gathered  round  her  ;  and  she  liked  it.  She  gave  it  back  ;  the  Hil- 
bury girls  were  fresh,  and  bright,  and  heartsome;  quick  and  intelli- 
gent too ;  and  individual,  as  they  were  not  in  the  city ;  nice  and 
delicate  though  simple,  of  array,  also,  in  the  hours  when  she  saw 
them  ;  nicer  and  more  delicate  for  her  being  there, — though  she 
never  thought  of  that ;  it  was  the  season  in  Hilbury  when  Sarah 
Gair  came  up ;  she  brought  fashions  with  her,  and  did  not  notice 
how  they  followed  her  appearing ;  she  only  thought  there  was  not 
so  great  a  difference,  after  all,  between  these  "  countrified  "  folk,  as 
her  mother  called  them,  and  the  people  in  the  town.  The  clever 
adaptiveness  which  reproduced  and  reflected  new  ideas  was  so 
prompt,  that  it  did  not  seem  reflective  but  simultaneous.  The 
decisive  touches  and  amendments  to  half  the  summer  apparel  in 
Hilbury  were  made  in  the  first  fortnight  after  Say  unpacked  her 
pretty  wardrobe  there. 

The  large,  pleasant  breakfast-room,  where  the  easterly  rays 
struggled  in,  aslant,  through  the  cherry-boughs,  seemed  full  of 
spring  bloom  when  Say  came  down,  in  her  rose-colored  wrapper ; 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  189 

and  she  sat  there,  when  she  had  done  eating  wheat-cakes  and  am- 
ber syrup,  in  the  delicious  after-breakfast  feeling  that  one  has, 
when  the  long  fair  day  lies  all  before  one  to  choose  one's  pleasure 
in. 

Aunt  Rebecca  washed  the  china.  Say  offered  to  take  a  towel ; 
but  Rebecca  did  not  care  to  have  her;  they  had  their  own  way, 
here,  of  doing  things  ;  and  one  of  these  was  not  the  fashion  of 
taking  two  to  do  what  one  could  accomplish  better  alone. 

"  Plenty  of  towels  and  scalding" water,  and  no  standing  to  drain  ;  " 
that  was  the  rule.  One  thing  taken  out  at  a  time,  from  the  steam- 
ing tub,  and  rubbed  to  a  polish  as  the  quick  vapor  dried  away  from 
it.  Say  chatted,  and  looked  on. 

Presently  a  slow,  shuffling  step  in  at  the  end  door  and  across  the 
wide  kitchen,  towards  them. 

Joanna's  bright  good-morning  had  a  tone  of  tenderness  in  it.  An 
old  man  stood  in  the  open  entrance  from  the  kitchen  to  the  break- 
fast-room. An  old,  bent  man,  with  a  mild,  asking  face  ;  always 
asking  and  dreamy ;  never  lighted  with  any  flash  of  certain  appre- 
hension. He  came  in,  half  feeling  his  way ;  the  added  vacancy  in 
his  eyes,  of  one  not  seeing  clearly,  passing  from  the  outer  sunshine 
to  the  shaded  room.  Say's  dress  was  the  brightest  thing  there  ;  he 
made  straight  for  that. 

"  Heaps  of  posies  ;  whole  heaps  of  posies  ;  and  a  posy-face,  too," 
as  Say  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  in  his  old  eyes. 

"  Jane's  child  ;  little  Sarah,  you  know  ;  "  Joanna  said,  following 
in,  and  speaking  with  slow  gentleness. 

"  Jane  was  allers  a  pretty  little  gal  ;  yes  ;  proper-behaved.  No 
gals  to  our  house ;  and  marm's  been  gone  a  great  while.  Gabriel's 
a  good  boy  though  ;  always  a  good  boy,  Gabriel." 

"  Going  to  the  field,  father  ?  " 

All  the  village  people  called  old  Mr.  Hartshorne  "  father  "  ;  it  is 
a  natural,  pitiful  way  that  kindly  hearts  take  towards  such  feeble 
folk.  Joanna  had  a  sweet  accent  on  the  word,  that  was  a  little 
different  from  her  ordinary,  aplomb  fashion  of  speech. 

When  Gabriel  was  by,  though,  she  never  called  him  so.  Many 
a  heart  has  its  little  stolen  luxury  like  this. 

Gabriel  was  not  far  ;  they  all  knew  that ;  he  never  lost  the  old 
man  long,  from  sight.  As  for  the  old  man  himself,  he  was  safe 
enough  now,  not  to  wander  widely,  from  his  "  boy  " ;  his  boy  of 
five  and  thirty,  who,  for  the  twelve  last  of  those  years  had  never 
been  three  days  together  away  from  him. 

"  Going  to  the  field ;  to  sow  corn ; "  he  said,  with  a  childish 
glee. 

"  I've  got  it ;  a  whole  pocket  full."  And  he  shook  the  kernels, 
that  rattled  crisply  one  against  another,  as  he  plunged  his  fingers 
among  them.  "  Farmer's  gold,  Gabriel  says.  Gabriel  gave  it  to 
me.  Good  boy." 

"  It's  a  bright  day,  father."     A  little  flush  crept  up  to  Joanna's 


The  Gayworthys. 

cheek  as  she  said  this  word  the  second  time.  She  was  nearly 
caught.  Gabriel  stood  at  this  instant  on  the  doorstone. 

He  came  in,  in  a  hearty  way.  He  shook  hands  with  Say,  who 
laid  her  little  white  palm  in  his  brown,  generous,  faithful  one, 
with  a  reverence  ;  for  she  knew  all  his  story ;  all  that  any  knew, 
that  is,  save  Joanna  Gayworthy  in  her  secret  memory,  and — you 
and  I.  reader,  of  all  others  in  the  blind  unconscious  world. 

Gabriel  turned  toward  Joanna,  last.  These  two  rarely  addressed 
each  other  by  name.  When  they  did,  it  was  "  Gabriel,"  and 
14  Joanna,'  simply,  as  it  had  been  of  old  from  childhood  up ;  any- 
thing else  would  have  been  absurd ;  but  both,  with  a  certain  in- 
stinct, preferred  to  find  themselves  face  to  face  before  speaking  at 
all ;  and  they  were  quick  to  catch  each  other's  glances  ;  to  feel, 
each  the  other,  by  an  intuition,  when  there  was  a  something  to  be 
said.  There  were  times,  though,  when  a  name  was  given,  for  a 
meaning  that  was  put  so  better  than  in  other  word  ;  this  was  rare 
and  beautiful ;  it  stood  for  thanks  ;  for  perfect  comprehension ,  for 
a  thousand  things  It  was  like  a  caress,  that  the  receiver  kept  the 
happiness  of  for  days,  reward  sufficient  for  whatever  called  it 
forth ;  the  giver  never  dreaming  how  dear  it  had  been  held.  Yet 
it  had  been  as  sweet  to  give  as  take.  In  one  thing,  only,  these 
two  mistook  each  other.  It  was  a  mistake  of  long  ago  with  one , 
an  error  of  conclusion  grown  from  it,  and  established  with  the 
other. 

"  I  looked  in  to  say  that  we  might  change  hands  this  morning  if 
you  liked.  It's  drilling  and  sowing  for  us,  to  day,  and  if  you  d  like 
to  break  up  that  south-side  piece  of  the  Peak-hill  lot,  you  can  have 
Rainer,  as  well  as  not,  and  send  Landy  to  me." 

Rainer  was  a  stalwart  plowman,  omnipotent  with  an  ox-team ; 
Orlando  was  a  farm-boy  of  fourteen. 

"  We  should  like  that,  Gabriel, — thank  you." 

The  frank  acceptance,  and  the  Christian  name, — these  were  the 
thanks,  the  recompense ;  the  rest  was  but  a  fashion  of  speech, 
common  to  common  people. 

Gabriel  leaned  down  over  the  chair  in  which  the  old  man  had 
seated  himself. 

"  We  must  make  haste  now,  father,"  he  said.  "  Farmer's  gold 
won't  grow  in  pockets." 

There  was  no  drawing-room  lounging  in  Hilbury.  The  morning 
calls  were  of  the  shortest. 

The  old  man  got  up  and  put  his  hand  out,  feeling  for  Gabriel's. 
Gabriel  passed  his  own  from  the  side  furthest,  and  drew  his  fath- 
er's up,  upon  his  nearer  arm.  A  kindly  support,  given  with  a 
grace,  as  it  might  have  been  to  a  woman,  or  to  any  old  and  feeble 
man.  Gabriel  Hartshorne  never  treated  his  childish  father  as  a 
child. 

"  That's  a  good  man,"  said  Say,  as  the  two  went  out  of 
hearing. 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  191 

"  That's  the  best  Christian  in  Hilbury,"  said  Aunt  Joanna,  in  a 
way  that  ended  the  matter,  saying  all  that  could  be  said. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  went  forth  to  the  field  with  his  old  father, 
and  took  up  his  day's  work  ;  the  stronger  for  that  moment  in 
Joanna's  presence ;  for  that  word  of  hers  that  he  had  caught. 
"  It's  a  bright  day,  father."  So  the  day  wore  a  new  brightness. 
For  that,  and  because  of  the  other  word — "Gabriel!"  On  so 
little  may  hearts  live.  God  keeps  the  breath  in  us,  we  know  not 
how. 

And  she  ?  She  sang  as  she  had  sung  at  nineteen ;  going  about 
the  house  in  her  quick,  neat  positive  way,  putting  everything  in 
Gayworthy  trim  ;  pure,  delicate,  smiling  order.  Old-maidish  ?  I 
suppose  so,  since  there  were  but  these  two  maidens  to  be  the  soul 
of  it  all.  and  to  dwell  in  its  midst.  Since  there  was  such  a  quiet- 
ness in  the  air ;  such  a  staying  of  things  after  they  were  put.  But, 
whatever  the  life  might  look  like,  it  was  no  stiff  and  solitary  living; 
narrowed  to  the  placing  of  a  chair — the  polishing  of  a  fire-iron  ; 
there  was  a  secret  joy  in  it — an  untold  thought — content  to  rest  so 
— asking  for  no  more  ;  yet  sure  of  something  that  ought  to  be  its 
own ;  that  should  be,  sometime,  let  this  world  go  as  ic  might  ;  that, 
meanwhile,  none  other  might  so  much  as  touch. 

It  was  the  joy  God  gives  us  in  His  waiting-times.  His  music 
between  our  acts  of  life. 

Say  had  her  first  flitting  to  do  ;  out  among  the  chickens — dozens 
of  little  live  puff-balls  of  golden  down,  with  just  one  note  of  faint, 
tender  music  breathed  into  each ;  into  the  shed-chamber,  the 
"  play-parlor"  of  old,  where  some  of  the  selfsame  bits  of  pink  and 
blue  china  were  set  up  on  the  ledges,  against  the  boards,  where 
she  had  put  them,  years  ago  ;  a  glance  out  from  the  always-open 
window  ;  a  counting  of  little  white  and  black  and  motley  pigs,  that 
were,  at  the  very  moment,  scrambling  after  each  other  over  the  bit 
of  meadow,  toward  the  oak  wood, — off  thither,  for  their  day's 
picnic  :  a  stroll  down  through  the  great  barn  between  the  sweet- 
smelling  mows,  and  so  out,  at  the  south  doors,  into  the  spring- 
meadow;  through  this,  by  the  graveled  cart-path,  running  around 
two  sides  to  a  bar-place  in  the  far  corner,  into  the  old  "  oak  orchard," 
away  beyond,  where  the  great,  precipitous  gray  boulder  reared  it- 
self in  the  midst,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill-field,  and  beside  it  spread 
the  huge  branches  of  the  ancient  tree  that  gave  its  name  to  the 
plantation.  A  rest  here,  and  a  long  look  over  the  valley,  to  the 
blue,  misty  hills  beyond  ;  a  ride  on  the  old  apple-bough,  her  steed 
in  days  of  yore  standing  here,  waiting,  still,  like  the  enchanted 
horse  in  the  Alhambran  legend.  Back  again,  after  awhile,  more 
slowly ;  a  peep  into  dairy  and  cheese  room  ;  a  delicious  pecking, 
in  the  old  way,  at  white  tender  curd,  cut  up  in  cubes,  ready  for  the 
press  ;  and  at  last,  half  unwillingly,  an  acknowledgment  of  the 
one  "must  "of  her  first,  bright  day  of  multitudinous  delights, — 
unpacking  ;  she  had  all  this  to  fill  up  the  quick  morning  hours,  and 


192  The  Gayworthys. 

bring  round  the  dinner-time,  before  she  had  really  settled  what  to 
do  with  the  day  at  all. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  Cousin  Wealthy's  this  afternoon  ?  "  she  asked  of 
the  aunts,  sitting  down  with  them  to  boiled  chicken  and  dandelions  ; 
the  "  cruel  dinner,"  that  she  had  called  it  in  her  childhood,  loving 
the  doorside  pets  and  the  field  flowers  so  ;  yet  finding  it  very  nice, 
for  all,  as  she  had  them,  with  its  garnishing  of  fresh  eggs  that  lay 
like  inlaid  gold  and  ivory  upon  the  dark  greens ;  and  its  delicate 
sauce  of  new,  sweet  butter,  melted  into  cream  again,  from  the 
very  churn.  "  Shall  we  go  to  Cousin  Wealthy's  and  see  Aunt 
Prue?" 

"  I  promised  to  drive  over  to  Winthorpe,  one  day  this  week," 
said  Rebecca,  "  and  this  is  Friday.  We  may  not  have  so  good  a 
day  to-morrow.  And  Stacy  will  have  been  looking  forme." 

"  '  The  church  and  the  steeple,  and  all  the  good  people,  and  yet 
she  complains  that  her  hands  are  not  full,'  "  said  Aunt  Joanna, 
merrily.  "  Did  you  ever  find  out,  Say,  that  a  leisure  day  gets 
crowded  fuller  of  business,  in  the  end,  than  any  other  ?  It's  just 
so  with  an  old  maid's  life.  Becsie  wasn't  satisfied  with  being  the 
chief  spoke  in  the  wheel  in  Hilbury  parish ;  but  she  must  take 
Winthorpe  parsonage  under  her  wing,  besides.  Stacy  King  has 
got  a  flock,  you  see.  It's  very  meritorious  to  have  a  flock,  particu- 
larly because  it  provides  something  for  your  friends  to  do.  So  the 
minister  came  over  here,  one  day,  five  or  six  years  ago,  whimper- 
ing :  •  Stacy  was  greatly  burdened,  and  very  feeble ;  she  was 
lonely,  too ;  she  wanted  some  friend  to  cheer  her  up,  and  would 
one  of  us  go  over?'  Of  course  we  would  ;  people  that  haven't 
got  husbands  and  flocks  never  have  anything  else  to  do  but  to  go 
everywhere,  and  do  everything,  and  all  at  a  time.  So  Becsie  went. 
And  when  she  once  begins  on  a  thing,  she  takes  it  right  into  her 
life,  and  makes  a  place  for  it,  and  after  that,  it's  never  off  the 
docket.  She's  like  the  man  I  saw  in  Selport,  with  the  dinner- 
plates.  One  more  never  makes  any  difference.  She  keeps  them 
all  spinning.  Turn  by  turn.  And  to-day's  the  day  it  seems, 
for  spinning  Winthorpe.  So  you'll  have  to  go  there,  if  any- 
where." 

"  That's  beautiful.  I  like  going  to  Winthorpe.  It's  so  lovely 
down  that  old  street,  so  broad  and  green,  with  just  a  track  in  the 
middle,  and  the  great  elms  reaching  overhead.  I'm  glad  you  didn't 
go  before.  Aunt  Becsie." 

"  You  needn't  be  under  any  alarm,"  said  Joanna.  "  There'll  be 
opportunities  enough.  What  with  Stacy's  ailments,  and  the  vicis- 
situdes of  the  flock,— sev«»  of  them,  Say  !  there's  always  an  errand. 
Becsie  goes  one  day,,  to  find  out  what  she's  to  go  for  next.  Last 
winter,  they  kept  her  busy  with  whooping-cough  ;  the  spring  before, 
it  was  measles;  and  when  the  Parsoness  gets  pulled  down  herself, 
she  goes  and  stays.  That's  every  six  months,  or  so." 

Rebecca  only  smiled.     There  was  no  open  wound,  now,  to  be 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  193 

touched  with  Joanna's  raillery.  Joanna  had  no  suspicion  there 
had  ever  been  one.  Their  two  lives  ran  on,  side  by  side,  each 
holding  its  own  mystery.  Such  is  sisterhood  ;  and  friendship  ;  for 
the  most  part. 

By  two  o'clock,  the  comfortable  two-seated  wagon  was  rolling 
along  the  downhill  roads  that  led  easterly  to  the  Chinsittimie  and 
Winthorpe.  It  was  four  when  they  came  into  the  large,  yet  rural 
river-town.  It  was  beautiful,  as  Say  had  said.  Built  on  the  wide, 
level  meadow-reaches,  it  had,  in  place  of  the  narrow,  winding  road 
that  creeps  from  village  to  village  among  the  hills,  a  broad,  mag- 
nificent green  street,  running  parallel  to  the  river.  Back  from 
this,  rods  apart,  stood  the  houses  ;  odd  and  antique,  many  of  them  ; 
for  Winthorpe  was  an  early  settlement,  and  its  fine  academy  was 
an  old  foundation.  There  were  gambrel-roofs  and  overhanging 
upper  stories  ;  queer  one-sided  roofs,  with  slope  from  ridge-pole 
to  door-post  behind,  and  a  mere  flap  in  front,  above  the  fair  two- 
story  elevation  ;  deep  porticoes  and  low  stoops ;  all  varieties  of 
primitive  New  England  architecture.  Over  all,  trees  older  than 
the  houses. 

Up  a  turf  yard,  to  the  side  porch,  hung  with  trails  and  sweeps  of 
woodbine  just  growing  tender  with  new  green,  they  came  to  the 
parsonage  entrance. 

The  pale,  worn  preacher  saw  them  from  his  study  window,  and 
came  out  to  take  their  horse.  Stacy  ran  from  some  inner  domes- 
tic sanctum,  picking  up  a  child  by  the  way,  and  gave  them  greet- 
ing at  the  door. 

"  This  is  real  good  of  you ;  and  to  bring  Say,  too !  "  she  said. 
"  I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  week." 

Stacy  King  had  no  time  now  for  puffs  and  vanities ;  if  not 
given  up,  they  had  been  crowded  aside.  Her  bright  hair  was  put 
back  over  her  ears,  not  quite  unrumpled  ;  the  baby  had  been  tug- 
ging at  it ;  her  face  was  thin,  her  eyes  looked  large,  a  side-tooth 
was  gone  that  showed  a  gap  in  the  pretty  mouth,  when  she  smiled, 
as  she  did  now ;  yet  her  smile  was  sweeter,  somehow,  when  it 
came,  than  it  had  been  in  the  old,  gay,  careless  days,  when  it  had 
won  Gordon  King.  The  corners  of  her  lips  drooped  into  a  quiet 
gravity,  after  the  smile  faded  ;  there  was  a  line  between  the  eye- 
brows that  told  of  perplexities,  very  like  ot  petulance.  Stacy  had 
had  a  hard  school  to  learn  in. 

You  could  have  seen  what  Rebecca  Gayworthy  had  been  to  her, 
by  the  look  she  turned  and  rested  on  her  when  she  had  got  her 
indoors  and  taken  away  her  bonnet.  What  she  had  been  in  the 
household,  by  the  very  baby  springing  to  her  arms  as  soon  as  it 
saw  her  face  and  caught  her  voice.  What  Gordon  King  thought 
when  he  came  in  and  found  her  so,  as  he  reached  out  his  wan, 
white  hand  for  a  renewed  grasp  of  welcome.  But  only  God  and 
the  secret  hearts  of  those  two  knew  all  that  she  had  been. 

The  line  had  begun  to  come  in  Stacy's  forehead  many  years 


194  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

ago,  when  the  first  illusion  of  mere  earthly  love  had  faded,  and 
the  cares  came  in  that  thrust  the  husband  and  wife  apart.  This 
time  arrives  with  the  demands  of  earnest  life,  in  some  phase,  to 
every  pair.  Every  Adam  and  Eve  must  leave  their  early  Para- 
dise behind  them,  and  while  it  lies  there  like  a  dream,  turn  from 
it  to  the  wilderness  that  spreads  wide  and  unrelenting  all  before. 
When  Gordon  King  and  Stacy  stood  so  in  their  wilderness,  an 
angel  came  to  them. 

Only  she  and  Stacy  knew  the  words  that  had  been  said  be- 
tween them,  that  day,  long  ago,  in  her  first  visit,  as  they  sat  in  the 
two  low  chairs  by  the  nursery  fire ;  nursery  and  mother  s  room, 
as  well ;  when  Stacy  flung  down  with  a  sudden,  reckless  impa- 
tience, the  insufficient  pattern  of  cloth  from  which  she  had  been 
trying  to  contrive  a  little  coat ;  and,  with  the  stirring  of  a  pebble, 
the  whole  pent-back  stream  poured  forth. 

"  It's  always  so !  I  never  tried  to  save  by  making  a  thing  do 
that  wouldn't  do,  and  I  ended  in  wasting  the  whole.  It's  mis- 
erable trying  to  get  something  out  of  nothing.  And  that's  what 
my  whole  life  has  been.  There  wasn't  enough  stuff  in  the  begin- 
ning. And  now  it's  all  cut  up,  and  there's  nothing  made  of  it, 
after  all.  I've  worried,  and  tugged,  and  strained,  and  lost  my 
good  nature,  and  my  strength,  and  my  good  looks,  and  all  I  had 
to  make  anybody  care  for  me ;  and  I'm  cross,  and  old,  and  good 
for  nothing,  and  spoilt!"  And  she  put  her  two  hands  against 
her  forehead,  and  leaned  down,  helplessly,  and  cried. 

"You've  done  what  God  gave  you  to  do,  Stacy;  don't  say 
there's  nothing  made  of  it." 

"  I  haven't.  And  He  didn't  give  it  to  me.  I  took  it.  Rebecca 
Gayworthy,  you  know  that." 

Rebecca  was  silent  at  that  for  a  half  minute.  Then  she  came 
near,  and  laid  her  arm  over  Stacy's  neck, — the  thin  shoulders,  that 
had  been  so  round  and  shapely  once, — quivering,  now,  with  the 
soul-pain  that  sent  itself  through  the  flesh, — and  said  tenderly — 

"  You  took  what  you  were  made  so  as  to  long  for,  and  what  He 
let  lie  in  your  way.  We  can  get  nothing  that  He  does  not  give. 
It  is  yours, — this  life, — because  you  needed  it." 

"  And  I  am  not  fit  for  it,  Rebecca.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
had  cheated  my  husband.  And, — Lord  help  me  !  sometimes  I 
think  he  feels  so,  too.  I  think  he  almost  turns  from  me,  and  gives 
me  up.  And  yet,  I  did  mean  to  be  so  good  !  It  wasn't  a  pretense ; 
but  my  religion  was  like  all  the  rest.  There  never  was  stuff 
enough.  I  tried  to  make  it  do,  but  it  fell  short." 

"  We  don't  have  it  all  at  once,  Stacy.  It  grows,  as  life  grows. 
Out  of  all  these  things,  perhaps,  it  is  coming  to  you  more  and 
more." 

"If  I  thought  that!  But  no;  it's  punishment.  I  wanted  to 
be  religious,  because  he  was;  because  I  couldn't  be  a  minister's 
wife  without  it ;  because  I  loved  him  so.  And  I  felt  sure  that 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  195 


'A&h  him  I  '•ould  be  anything.  I  thought  he  would  always  help 
nr.<e.  But  hf-'s  had  other  people  to  help  ;  and  I've  had  my  sepa- 
rate work  to  do.  And  when  a  person  is  once  supposed  to  have 
got  religion,  it's  taken  for  granted  to  be  for  good  and  all.  Or  else, 
they've  been  hypocrites  and  pretenders.  I  suppose  that's  what 
I've  been  ;  but  I  didn't  mean  it,  Becsie.  I  believed  in  myself  — 
then." 

"  And  why  not  now,  Stacy  ?     What  reason  have  you  to  doubt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Becsie  !  it  don't  hold  !  It  gives  way  with  every  strain  that 
comes  upon  it.  I  haven't  any  strength  nor  any  patience.  I'm 
cross  with  my  husband,  and  cross  with  my  children.  And  I  care 
just  as  much  for  vanities  as  ever  ;  only  I  can't  get  them.  It  makes 
me  angry  to  see  my  face  in  the  glass,  all  pinched  and  pale  ;  and 
to  have  to  wear  that  old  straw  bonnet  with  the  brown  ribbon 
ironed  out.  And  —  it's  gospel  truth,  Becsie,  though  he's  a  good 
man  —  he  isn't  half  so  patient  himself  with  me  as  he  was  when  I 
was  pretty." 

"  Don't  you  tell  him  your  troubles  and  temptations  ?  Don't 
you  pray  God  together  for  help  ?  " 

"  Of  course  we  have  family  prayers  ;  when  Dorcas  comes  in  ; 
there's  hardly  a  chance  now  for  anything  else,  with  all  his  time  so 
taken  up,  and  the  babies  wanting  me  every  hour.  And  pmyers  — 
it's  dreadful  —  but  they  do  !  make  me  feel  further  away  from  him 
than  ever,  and  from  God  too  ;  when,  perhaps,  I've  been  fretful 
and  tired  all  day  long.  Oh,  Becsie  !  I  want  to  be  taken  up  and 
comforted  !  " 

Rebecca  drew  the  tired  head,  the  pale  face,  down  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"  You're  worn  out,  dear.  It's  that.  You  mustn't  find  fault 
with  the  soul  for  the  ails  of  the  body.  You  don't  sleep  well,  poor 
child  !  do  you  ?  " 

The  tender  words,  —  the  "poor  child,"  —  the  nestling  down  into 
a  friendly  bosom,  —  with  these,  Stacy  sobbed  in  a  gentle,  passive, 
grieved  way,  as  a  baby  might. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  whole  night's  rest  in  all  these  five  years  past. 
Sometimes  not  a  whole  hour.  I've  had  my  arms  full  night  and 
day  ;  when  I  wanted  to  be  in  arms  myself  and  tended." 

She  breathed  it  out  brokenly  between  her  sobs. 

"  '  The  eternal  God  is  thy  refuge  ;  and  underneath  are  the  ever- 
lasting arms.'  We  are  only  left  to  feel  the  other,  that  we  might 
feel  this.  '  Flesh  and  heart  faileth  ;  but  God  is  the  strength  of 
our  hearts,  and  our  portion  forever.'  Think  that  He  is  teaching 
you  this,  Stacy,  and  be  willing  to  learn  His  lesson.  But  never 
think  that  He  has  left  you,  or  given  you  over." 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  I  have  been  afraid  of,"  murmured  Stacy. 

"  If  the  life  had  gone  out  of  you,  you  could  not  have  been  afraid. 
It  is  the  flesh  that  is  weak  ;  and  for  that,  we  must  take  care  of 
you,  somehow." 


196  The  Gayworthys. 

"  God  bless  you,  Rebecca  Gayworthy !     You  do  take  me  up  and 
comfort  me.     And  to  think  it  should  be  you/" 
"  Hush,  hush,  dear  !  " 

"  She  needs  change  and  rest." 

Rebecca  had  said  so  to  the  minister  down-stairs,  after  prayers 
that  same  night,  when  Stacy  had  gone  up  early  with  the  baby. 

"  Next  month," — the  next  month  would  be  October,  and  Rebecca 
knew  that  then  the  baby  would  begin  its  little,  independent  life, 
and  the  mother  might  be  spared  from  it, — "  next  month  would  not 
Mrs.  Fairbrother  come  over  and  stay,  and  let  me  have  Stacy  a 
while  at  the  farm  ?  Annie  and  Gordie  should  come  too.  That 
would  make  it  easier  here,  and  they  should  not  tease  Stacy." 

The  minister  turned  with  a  quick,  grateful  look. 

"  You  shall  take  your  own  way  with  us  all.  You  are  a  true 
friend,  Miss  Rebecca." 

"  Being  so,  may  I  say  one  thing  more,  that  only  a  true  friend 
should  say  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  please." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  spoke  of  when  you  first  came  to 
tell  us  that  this  home  was  to  be  ?  Of  the  help  she  needed  ?  '  Her 
feet,'  you  said,  '  are  newly  set  in  the  upward  way.'  "  Hasn't  it 
been  harder  for  her  sometimes  than  you  have  thought,  perhaps, 
with  all  these  cares  coming  about  her  ?  " 

"  Have  I  been  hard  upon  her  ?     Does  she  think  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Rebecca.  "  But  I  am  afraid  she  is  hard  upon  her- 
self. Because  of  little  failures.  I  think  she  needs  help  and 
cherishing  that  way;  more  than  she  did  then  in  her  first  hopeful- 
ness. I  think  she  needs  to  feel  nearer  to  her  husband  and  his 
strength  than  ever." 

Rebecca  said  this  low,  timidly,  as  going  to  the  very  verge  of 
her  friendly  right. 

Gordon  King  regarded  her  intently.  His  voice  altered  and  he 
partly  turned  away  again  as  he  answered  her. 

"My  strength  is  a  poor  thing,"  he  said.  "I  have  had  my 
failures  too.  I  laid  my  hands  on  life  presumptuously,  before  I 
knew  what  sort  of  matter  it  was.  I  took  it  upon  me  to  lead  others 
when.  God  knows,  I  wanted  leading  most  of  all  myself.  I  wasn't 
fit  to  care  for  Stacy,  poor  child." 

"  Yet  her  very  love  of  God  went  up  through  you !  and  now  she 
is  afraid.  Don't  leave  her  alone  !  " 

All  the  tenderness  of  the  old  days, — of  the  starlit  evenings  when 
Stacy  had  told  him  first  "  she  was  not  good,  she  was  afraid," — 
when  it  had  seemed  so  sweet  to  help  her,  to  lift  his  soul  to  Heaven 
for  hers, — when  he  had  thought  he  could  be  strong  for  both,— 
came  back  suddenly  as  he  heard  these  words.  A  loftiness  and 
strength  came  also  to  him,  from  the  loftiness  he  recognized  in  her 
who  spoke  them,  A  new,  generous  love  toward  the  wife  for  whom 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  197 

the  old,  first,  passionate  love  even  had  borrowed  a  tender  reverence, 
carried  unconsciously  from  his  thought  of  this  woman, — this  friend, 
— who  was  too  high  for  him  now,  as  she  had  been  then ;  who 
strengthened  him  standing  by ;  from  whose  presence  he  could 
bear  strength  to  the  other, —  his  own, — waiting  for  it.  There  are 
women  who  are  born  for  ministry  like  this ;  not  receiving  unto 
themselves,  ever,  save  from  God  ;  giving  out  always. 

Gordon  King  thought  of  his  wife  as  she  had  been  in  those  old 
days ;  in  her  sweet  girlishness,  that  any  beautiful  womanhood 
might  grow  from  ;  with  her  fresh,  bright  smile,  that  grew  brighter 
always  for  him  ;  when  her  very  little  pettishnesses  and  vanities 
were  like  the  spring  breeze  that  tosses  up  a  perfume.  He  thought 
of  the  weary  mother  above  there  hushing  her  weary  child.  He  felt 
life  had  been  hard  for  her.  It  had  been  hard  for  him ;  but  its 
hardness  should  not  have  thrust  between  them  so.  Tears  and 
prayers  should  not  have  been  so  locked  away  in  two  separate  souls. 
Please  God,  his  yet  young  flower  should  grow  bright  again. 

"  I  will  not  leave  her  alone.     God  forgive  me  if  I  have  done  so  !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Rebecca  as  he  rose.  He  grasped  hers 
hard.  "  God  has  sent  a  help  to  us  both,"  said  he,  tremulously. 

"  And  that  it  should  be  you  !"  That  was  what  his  heart  smote 
him  with,  also,  secretly,  though  he  spoke  it  not.  The  underlife 
that  never  had  been  spoken, — that  lay  between  these  three, — 
through  the  power  of  this  Rebecca  touched  them  both — the  husband 
and  the  wife.  It  was  possible  for  her  alone ;  her  purchased  right. 
At  her  hand  they  must  take  help.  Was  it  gift  of  grace  or  coals  of 
fire  ?  Gift  of  God's  love,  as  comes  with  all  scorch  and  pain,  though 
we  have  earned  the  pain  only. 

The  minister  went  up-stairs  ;  the  baby  was  hushed  away  in  the 
cradle.  He  and  Stacy  were  alone. 

Rebecca  sat  below,  wistful  of  a  beginning  of  new  joy  for  them  ; 
a  joy  she  had  helped  to  make  ;  that  she  also  entered  into. 

I  think  it  was  the  very  "  joy  of  her  Lord."  Of  Him  who  came 
not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister. 

More  than  six  years  ago  that  was.  Six  years,  wherein,  quietly 
and  faithfully,  Rebecca  Gayworthy  had  taken  Winthorpe  Parsonage 
"  right  into  her  life,  and  made  a  place  for  it  "  ;  wherein  there  had 
grown  to  be  no  other  consciousness  any  more  between  her  and  it 
than  that  of  a  gentle,  happy  friendliness ;  till  to-day,  because  of 
her,  there  was  here  a  life,  toilsome  but  peaceful ;  there  were  hearts 
weary  often,  but  undistrustful ;  love  chastened,  calm,  patient ;  here 
where  wreck  of  heart  and  faith  and  life  had  threatened ;  till  to- 
day, a  cheeriness  lighted  itself  up  about  her  as  she  came  in,  so  that 
Sarah  Gair,  entering  after  her,  felt  on  the  very  threshold  the  soul  of 
the  whole  story. 

Joanna  had  been  set  down  in  Shop  Row.  She  had  some  errands 
to  do  and  an  old  school-friend  to  see.  Afterward  she  came  to  the 
Parsonage.  And  then  it  made  itself  evident  that,  for  all  her 


198  The  Gayworthys. 

sauciness,  she  had  taken  up  a  cheery  little  missf  :n  of  her  own 
here,  none  the  less. 

There  were  sugar-plums  in  her  bag,  and  the  children  instincted 
them  afar  off,  like  flies.  She  popped  them  into  their  mouths  as 
they  stood  about  her  knees,  holding  up  defiantly,  now  and  then, 
before  the  parson's  eyes,  a  glowing  red  or  lucid  amber  bit,  as  she 
came  to  it.  The  parson  usually  approved  only  of  white,  unfla- 
vored  candies  for  his  children,  when,  poor  souls,  they  happened  to 
get  any  at  all.  But  that  was  neither  according  to  Joanna's  hygiene 
nor  philosophy. 

"  They're  made  to  like  pretty  colors,"  she  said,  "  We  needn't 
poison  them,  to  be  sure  ;  but  the  bright  sugar  tastes  the  sweetest, 
for  all  that,  and  it  takes  a  little  essence  of  something  to  help  the 
double-refinements  down." 

So,  after  the  sweetmeats  came  stories  ;  truth  essenced  for  them 
upon  the  like  principle.  White  light  broken  up  into  rainbows. 
Aunt  Joanna  told  magnificent  stories.  She  went  on,  to-day,  with 
a  wonderful  serial  about  a  cat  who  exceeded  in  the  brilliancy  of 
her  adventures  all  the  cats  of  fable.  In  their  fundamental  moral- 
ity, also,  since  she  never  lied,  or  stole,  or  slew,  irnpunibly  ;  but  was 
trained  gradually  by  the  discipline  of  consequences,  even  as  little 
humans,  toward  truth  and  honesty  and  mercy.  And  the  story 
never  came  to  a  final  end,  any  more  than  life  does.  She  was 
never  declared  to  have  been  "  good  and  happy  ever  after  "  ;  there 
was  always  "  more  for  next  time."  Aunt  Joanna  knew  Mother 
Goose,  too,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  she  sang  the  old  rhymes 
in  her  clear,  beautiful  voice,  to  improvised  melodies  of  her  own, 
sometimes  gleeful  as  laughter,  sometimes  sweet  and  touching  as 
old  church-tunes.  The  others  dropped  their  talk  often  and  list- 
ened, to  her  inventions  as  well  as  to  her  songs.  The  grave 
minister  laughed  at  her  oddities,  and  Stacy  declaring  that  there 
was  never  any  chance  of  rationality  after  Joanna  Gayworthy  came 
in,  was  met  by  the  avowal  that  it  was  precisely  what  she  came  for ; 
to  shake  them  up  and  unsettle  them  out  of  their  primness,  and 
give  them  all  the  trouble  she  could  in  getting  back  to  it  again. 
She  was  like  a  breeze  that  set  everything  fluttering,  and  left  the 
whole  house  freshened  after  she  had  passed  on. 

Then  as  they  drove  slowly  homeward  over  the  hills,  she  took  up 
her  pranks  of  satire  again. 

"  I've  found  it  out ;  and  it's  something  for  an  old  maid  to  dis- 
cover! Marriage  goes  by  the  Rule  of  Three.  A  two-legged  stool 
won't  stand  alone.  It  wants  a  third  prop  somehow.  Sometimes 
it's  religion — when  they're  both  of  one  mind  about  that,  and  when 
it  really  is  the  main  thing ;  sometimes  it's  vvorldliness — when 
they've  both  one  object ;  sometimes  it's  a  friend — when  there's 
somebody  that's  as  much  to  both  of  them  as  they  are  to  each  other. 
That  makes  a  three-strand  rope.  And  for  thai\* Duple  it's  Rebecca 
Gayworthy.  She's  married  'em  both,  as  much  as  they  ever  mar- 


Music  Between  the  Acts.  199 

ried  one  another.  And  she's  the  house-band  let  me  tell  you,  Say, 
of  the  whole  establishment." 

Say  laughed.  Rebecca  smiled  gently  as  she  always  did  at  Jo- 
anna's fun,  but  her  eye  had  a  far-away  joy  in  it,  not  born  of  the 
smile.  It  was  a  look  like  one  who  hears  a  faint,  sweet  tone  in  the 
air.  The  echo  of  her  own  life-music,  floating  round  her  in  this 
midmost  calm,  from  all  its  pure  accordant  years. 

"  But  what,"  said  Say  presently,  "  if  they  can't  manage  to  get  a 
third  prop  ?  There  aren't  many  Aunt  Rebeccas  to  be  had,  what- 
ever they  might  do  about  the  other  things." 

"  Oh,  then  they  lean  up  against  a  dead  wall  most  of  'em,  and 
just  look  strong  and  respectable.  There's  plenty  of  two-legged 
stools  in  the  world." 

"  But,  Aunt  Joanna,"  said  Say  again,  "  I  don't  believe  you  take 
enough  credit  to  yourself.  It  seems  to  me  you're  as  much  at  home 
at  the  Parsonage  as  anybody." 

"  Oh,  I  go  there,  just  as  I  do  to  dozens  of  other  places.  I  like  to 
see  how  different  human  beings  manage.  I  borrow  a  little  of 
everybody's  life.  That's  what  I  go  to  church  for,  as  much  as  the 
preaching.  I  know  when  old  Mrs.  Gibson  has  had  the  bows  turned 
on  her  black  Navarino,  and  it  makes  me  feel  just  as  comfort- 
able for  her  as  she  does  for  herself;  and  it's  nice  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  Eunice  when  she  isn't  tailoressing  ;  and  to  think  how  she's  rest- 
ing with  her  gloves  on,  and  her  hands  folded.  And  I  like  to  see 
when  the  Newcombe  girls  are  home  from  Manchester  on  a  visit, 
and  to  watch  their  mother's  eyes ;  I  don't  know  but  her  pride  is 
as  pious  as  most  folks'  prayers.  And  to  see  the  different  looks  on 
different  faces  when  a  hymn's  given  out,  or  the  Bible's  read,  or 
something  special  is  said  in  a  sermon.  You  can  tell  half  that  ever 
happened  to  people,  if  you  didn't  know  it  before  ;  and  pretty  nearly 
what's  come  of  it  all.  Yes,  Say,  I'm  a  gossip  ;  weekdays  and  Sun- 
days, a  clear  gossip.  Old  maids  generally  are,  when  they  aren't 
saints  like  Becsie.  And  a  gossip  isn't  a  bad  thing  either,  if  you 
leave  out  the  tattling  part.  I  looked  the  word  out  in  Johnson  one 
day.  It  comes  from  "  God-sibb,  God-relation."  It's  what  He  puts 
between  us  in  this  world.  And  most  of  my  religion  I  think,  if  I've 
got  any,  comes  by  relation  ;  by  feeling  other  people's  experiences. 
I'd  rather  see  a  good  face,  and  know  of  a  good  thing  done,  than  to 
hear  a  twenty-headed  sermon  about  it." 

Not  a  word  in  all  this,  of  Mrs.  Prouty,  as  of  old  ;  there  had  been 
no  sarcasm  either  upon  Stacy  ;  something  in  the  years  had  touched 
Joanna's  quickness  with  a  broader  kindliness. 

Say  remembered  this  talk,  afterward,  on  Sunday,  sitting  by  Aunt 
Joanna,  in  the  old  square  pew  ;  Joanna  had  left  the  singing  gallery 
years  ago,  when  there  only  remained  Rebecca  and  herself,  of  all 
the  Gayworthys,  *o  sit  together ;  Say  thought  of  her  words,  and 
her  Sunday  "  gossip,"  seeing  Gabriel  Hartshorne, — the  "  best 
Christian  in  all  Filbury," — in  the  pew  before  ;  seeing  him  find  the 


2oo  The  Gayworthys. 

chapter  and  hymn  for  his  old  father,  and  hold  the  book  for  him  to 
look  on ;  seeing  him  pick  up  his  hat  for  him,  when  the  service  was 
over,  and  the  people  going  out ;  and  lead  him  down  the  aisle,  slowly, 
leaning  on  his  strong,  tender  arm.  She  saw  the  light  in  Joanna's 
eyes,  looking  on  all  this,  as  they  walked  after ;  when  Gabriel  would 
have  drawn  back,  to  let  them  pass  more  quickly,  and  she  refused 
to  hasten  by,  but  kept  a  reverent  step  behind  ;  when  afterward,  in 
the  churchyard,  they  came  near — the  old  man  and  the  younger  one 
— pausing  at  a  white-tableted  grave. 

"  Hepzibah  Hartshorne,"  the  stone  said, — "  aged  54." 

Joanna  Gayworthy  pressed  Say's  arm,  and  drew  her  on.  But  she 
had  seen  Gabriel  give  to  his  father  a  little  nosegay  of  spring- 
flowers.  And  the  old  man  smiled,  and  laid  it  on  the  grave. 

"  She's  'way  off — an'  it's  a  long  time  !  But  she  knows  we  don't 
forget  her  Sunday  posy,  Gabe  ?  " 

Gabriel  bent  his  head  ;  and  a  strange,  sweet  smile  came  over  his 
face;  a  shining  intentness  into  its  lines  ;  as  of  one  to  whom  a  far, 

flad,  solemn  utterance  comes,  that  is  not  for  all.  Some  faint, 
eautiful  likeness,  I  think  it  must  have  borne  to  the  look  that  rested 
once  on  the  One  Divine  Countenance  when  the  Voice  breathed 
"  My  beloved  Son  !  In  whom  I  am  well  pleased." 

Her  Sunday  posy — brought  to  her,  even  yet,  by  loving  hands. 
In  the  tall-growing  grass  lay  many  such,  already ;  drying  away 
there,  week  by  week. 

"  Do  they  always  do  that  ?  "  Say  whispered. 

And  Joanna  answered,  in  a  hushed  way,  as  speaking  of  some- 
thing holy, — "  always." 

Even  in  a  blank  like  this,  a  music.  Sweet-dropping  notes,  sum- 
mer by  summer  measuring  the  time,  between  far-parted  acts  of  an 
old  man's  helpless  life. 

Aunt  Joanna  sat  through  the  afternoon  service,  with  her  head 
upon  her  hand.  Her  face  was  paler  than  at  morning,  and  there 
was,  now  and  then,  a  look  of  wistful  pain  about  the  eyes.  Say 
leaned  toward  her  once,  taking  her  little  smelling-bottle  from  her 
pocket.  A  quick  motion  of  Joanna's  hand  said  plainly,  Nonsense ! 
and  with  a  queer  little  quiver  of  the  mouth,  she  pulled  down  her 
veil  over  the  front  of  her  bonnet  and  turned  away. 

"  What  was  the  matter,  Auntie  ?  "  asked  Say,  afterward,  when 
they  came  out. 

"  Matter  ?  goosie ! "  replied  Joanna.  "  Why,  I  sat  looking  at 
'Senath  Spring's  new  bonnet  with  the  cape  all  on  one  side,  till  it 
gave  me  the  toothache !  Nobody  knows  what  I  have  to  go  through 
with  the  Hilbury  millinery ! " 


Then  and  Now.  201 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THEN   AND   NOW. 

JOANNA  was  out  in  the  front  yard,  sowing  her  last  annuals  in  the 
little  beds  under  the  parlor  windows.  Say  stood  behind  her  with 
the  basket  of  seeds. 

"  Now,  the  nasturtiums." 

While  Say  had  her  fingers  among  the  paper  bags, — rattle-te- 
clash  !  down  came  a  country  wagon  to  the  gate.  'Siah  Ford  fac- 
totum, from  the  Hoogs  place. 

"  Cap'n  Vorse's  got  home !  " 

Joanna  jumped  up,  and  turned  round,  and  Say  thrust  into  her 
hand  a  big  brown  parcel  of  pumpkin  seeds. 

"  Gershom  !     When  ?  " 

"  Las'  night.  Much  as  ever,  though.  Ship  all  but  went  down 
in  a  harricane." 

Then  the  two  women  turned  pale,  as  if  the  news  had  come  this 
end  foremost,  with  the  "  all  but  "  left  out :  and,  in  an  instant, 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  grass-path  ;  basket,  trowel,  pumpkin  seeds, 
and  all. 

"  'Siah  Ford  ! "  cried  Joanna,  clutching  the  paper  parcel  in  one 
hand,  till  the  pumpkin-seeds  began  to  ooze  through  its  lower  end, 
and  slide  down  into  the  grass,  while  she  threatened  him  with  the 
trowel  in  the  other, — "  what-ever-in-the-world-do-you-mean  ?  " 
Saying  these  words  very  deliberately  and  emphatically  with  the  little 
catches  between  as  designated,  she  sowed  at  least  three  pumpkins 
to  the  syllable. 

'Siah  Ford  looked  her  in  the  face,  solemnly. 

"  Sartin  true, — black'n  blue, — give  yer  leave  ter  cut  m'  in  two." 

"Not  the  Ceres !" 

"  Ser  'is  ?  Yes,  I  tell  yer !  Can't  nuthin  make  yer  b'lieve  a 
feller  ?  " 

"  The  ship  Ceres !  You  know  what  I  mean.  Say,  make  him 
tell ! " 

"  Ship  Ceres  ?  "  Oh,  lor,  no  !  I  remember  now.  No,  'twant  the 
Ceres  ;  they  left  her,  long  shore,  somewheres,  out  there  in  Indy ; 
stoppin'  fer  iv'ry,  or  sunthin ;  he'll  tell  yer.  But  the  short  on't  is, 
he's  Cap'n ;  an'  I  rather  guess  he's  airnt  his  ship.  One  they  put 
him  aboard  of  to  bring  home.  The  Cap'n  died  out  there.  'T  all 
belonged  t'  the  same  concern.  Spose  likely  I  don't  take  in  the  hull 
on't,  but  from  what  I  c'n  pick  up  "bout  it,  he's  done  sunthin  "r  other 
pesky  smart,  Cap'n  Vorse  has  ;  or  less  he  wouldn't  be  here." 

Sarah  Gair's  eyes  flashed  a  great,  proud  gladness,  as  she  stood 
and  listened. 


2O2  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Something  smart  ?  "  Oh,  she  knew  !  Some  brave,  grand  thing, 
such  as  Gershom  had  always  meant  to  do.  Now,  it  had  come. 
Now,  he  was  a  hero.  And  this  noble  thing,  this  glory, — it  was 
hers,  partly,  also.  Because  she  had  been  in  the  secret,  in  the  old 
days,  when  it  was  only  a  dream.  When  he  first  wanted  to  go  to 
sea  ;  and  talked  out  there  on  the  big  rock  under  the  yellow  plum- 
tree,  of  what  he  would  do,  if  he  ever  got  to  be  a  man,  and  a  sailor. 
Her  hands  trembled,  holding  the  willow  basket.  The  full,  brilliant 
color  swept  up  and  deepened  in  her  cheek,  till  it  glowed — palpitated 
— like  a  flame. 

Aunt  Joanna  had  not  quite  got  over  her  little  paleness  at  the 
shock  and  the  astonishment ;  at  thirty-three  the  blood  does  not 
pulse  back  and  forth  with  such  suddenness,  as  at  nineteen. 

"  Why,  child,"  she  cried,  turning  round  to  Say,  "  you're 
illuminated  !  " 

With  that,  she  sowed  the  last  of  the  pumpkins,  in  a  new  spot, 
and  was  never  the  wiser.  How  they  came  there  under  the  maples, 
she  wondered,  a  month  or  two  later. 

'Siah  Ford  had  driven  round  into  the  chip-yard.  Rebecca  was 
coming  up  from  the  barn,  with  a  basket  of  eggs.  Do  the  best  they 
could,  the  women  must  go  back  through  the  house,  to  meet  her. 
So  he  would  be  first  with  his  news.  This  was  his  business,  to-day, 
with  every  soul  he  could  waylay  in  Hilbury.  Nothing  else  under 
the  sun  had  brought  him  down  from  the  farm  with  his  horse  and 
empty  wagon.  There  was  meal  waiting  at  the  mill,  to  be  sure  ; 
and  he  was  going  for  it :  by  and  by,  if  he  didn't  forget  it.  This  is 
the  way  they  carry  tidings  in  Yankee-land  ;  much  like  the  "  bended 
bow  and  the  voice  "  of  Highland  warfare  ;  only  without  the  avowed 
purpose.  There  is  always  meal  at  the  mill. 

He  "couldn't  stop  to  talk  over  partick'lers ;  must  come  up  to 
our  'us  an'  hear  all  about  it.  Cap'n  was  smart,  an'  so  was  the 
widders." 

And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  passed  on ;  towards  Harts- 
home's,  and  so  to  the  Bridge. 

Dinner  at  twelve.  Half  an  hour  earlier  than  the  Gayworthy 
wont.  At  one,  a  grand  council  of  one,  in  the  red-room,  with  bolted 
door,  over  four  dresses. 

The  purple  jaconet  was  fresh  and  new  ;  but  then  the  pink  muslin 
was  so  bright  and  becoming ;  too  dressy,  perhaps,  with  its  four 
little  flouncings ;  Gershom  hated  finery  so.  Oh,  dear !  if  one  could 
only  look  one's  prettiest,  without  keeping  the  reason  why  in  sight ! 
The  dark-blue  foulard  was  what  she  would  naturally  have  put  on 
for  a  common  drive  over  to  Cousin  Wealthy's ;  and  it  would  grow 
cool  at  dusk ;  but,  oh,  dear,  no !  that  would  never  do  for  this 
occasion.  An  old  thing, — mourning  besides,  somewhere,  over 
there,  on  the  other  side  the  world, — and  he  just  home,  alive  and 
well,  by  a  hair-breadth  'scape,  and  who  knows  what  marvel  of 
courage!  If  she  could  have  ventured  on  the  white; — but  that  was 


Then  and  Now.  203 

too  manifest  a  getting  up.  These  first  days  of  June  had  been 
summer  in  fact  as  well  as  name ;  but,  up  here  among  the  moun- 
tains, people  were  slow  in  coming  to  trust  the  summer, — to  the 
extent  of  white  muslin. 

Say  turned  back  to  the  purple  lawn  ;  good  sense  and  good  taste 
compromised  upon  this.  She  huddled  the  other  dresses  into  the 
press,  and  pulled  her  hair  down  with  one  hand,  while  she  un- 
fastened the  door  with  the  other.  Aunt  Rebecca  was  outside ; 
come  to  see  if  she  were  ready.  The  hair  must  come  down  and 
go  up  again,  though  Aunt  Rebecca  would  not  have  seen  the 
necessity. 

"  In  five  minutes,  auntie  !  If  you  come  in  I  shall  get  chattering ; 
just  go  off  like  a  dear,  and  I  won't  be  any  time  ! " 

But  Rebecca  and  Joanna  waited  twenty  minutes,  talking  with 
Mary  Makepeace,  who  came  in  for  a  pitcher  of  yeast  and  to  hear 
more,  or  over  again,  about  it  all.  Then  they  began  to  call  up  the 
stairs,  and  called  alternately,  for  five  minutes  longer  ;  and  then  at 
last  the  little  lady  came  down.  Not  gay, — not  fine,  but  somehow 
things  could  not  be  fresh  on  her  without  proclaiming  their  fresh- 
ness ;  there  is  such  a  difference  in  women  about  this :  and  from 
the  straight  white  line  between  the  dark  waving  bands  of  her  hair 
to  the  tip  of  the  little  black  gaiter  boot,  she  was  finished, — and  just 
finished,  marvelously. 

"  Isn  t  your  dress  too  thin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  aunt  Becsie  !  this  jaconet !  Why  it's  as  thick  as — paste- 
board !  It's  only  a  nice  kind  of  calico." 

"  I  don't  know, — it  isn't  out  of  the  common  to  be  sure,  when 
you  come  to  examine — and  yet — it  looks — well,  if  it  was  unbleached 
sheeting  I  suppose  you'd  bloom  out  in  it ! "  Aunt  Joanna's  slight 
doubt  worked  itself  off  so,  with  an  accent  of  pride,  and  a  loving 
little  tip  of  the  chin,  lifting  up  a  bright  face  and  graceful  head 
that  could  but  have  bloomed  truly  from  whatever  sort  of 
calyx. 

It  was  only  a  simple  white-grounded  lawn,  spotted  thickly  with 
tiny  purple  pansies  ;  but  there  were  dainty  puffings  about  waist  and 
sleeves,  and  delicate  lace  at  the  throat ;  and — altogether,  she  might 
have  gone  so  to  a  ball,  and  looked  lovely  ;  or  come  down  to  break- 
fast in  it  equally  lovely,  and  defiant  of  criticism. 

Sarah  Gair  and  Gershom  Vorse  had  not  met  for  five  years  past. 
Then  it  had  been  at  Hilbury,  as  now;  when  she  was  fourteen,  and 
he  twenty.  He  was  mate  of  a  vessel  then,  sailing  from  New  York ; 
Blackmere  was  in  the  same  ship,  second  officer.  The  old  Pearl 
had  been  sold  away  ;  she  went  into  smaller  coastwise  trade.  Black- 
mere  loved  the  brig,  but  he  loved  Gershom  Vorse  better.  Ger- 
shom must  rise ;  it  was  his  duty  in  life,  and  he  had  chances.  Educa- 
tion, which  was  the  greatest  chance  of  all.  Blackmere  cared  for 
no  advancement,  whether  he  could  have  got  it  or  not ;  he  barnacled 
himself  to  Gershom  now,  and  shipped  with  him  always.  Gershom 


2O4  The  Gayworthys. 

looked  out  for  that  and  carried  his  point,  or  gave  up  all  the  rest. 
They  had  been  in  the  Ceres  last ;  round  the  Northwest  coast 
for  sandal-wood  and  furs ;  home  by  China,  to  load  with  teas  and 
silks.  Gershom  had  seen  the  world — a  sailor's  sight  of  it — over 
and  over. 

And  Say  had  lived  on  in  her  world  :  half  a  dozen  streets  ;  a 
couple  of  score  of  drawing-rooms  ;  four  houses,  perhaps,  where 
she  was  intimate  enough  to  go  up-stairs  when  there  was  no  party. 
This  world  of  hers  opened  out  toward  the  great  hills,  though  ;  this 
had  saved  her  from  utter  narrowness  and  stagnation.  And  she 
had  books  ;  but  they  were  to  her  life  what  Gershom's  sailor-books 
had  been  to  the  great  sea ;  that  lay  all  beyond,  in  its  might  and 
mystery,  transcending  dreams. 

Could  these  two  join  their  sympathies  at  the  point  where  their 
intercourse  had  broken  off  ?  Could  they  stand  again  at  that  in- 
stant of  hope  and  resolve,  and  look  in  the  light  of  it,  at  this  mo- 
ment of  achievement  ?  Hope  and  achievement  never  are  so  joined. 
The  years  and  the  labor  lie  between.  It  was  a  boy  of  thirteen 
that  had  lain  on  the  gray  rock  under  the  plum-tree,  asking  Say, 
the  child  of  seven,  what  the  sea  was  like.  It  was  a  man  of  twenty- 
five,  who  had  traversed  the  hemispheres,  and  measured  his  man- 
hood against  the  elements,  who  came  home  to-day  with  a  deed  in 
his  life  where  a  resolve  had  been. 

Say,  who  had  had  "  all  these  years  longer  to  be  a  little  girl,"  had 
achieved  it  seems  nothing  but  her  growth,  her  bloom,  and  her 
woman-garb.  Nothing  else,  that  Gershom  could  apprehend.  She 
could  but  put  on  her  pansy-robe  and  come  to  him,  so,  with  her 
best. 

She  could  go  back.  Those  moments  under  the  plum-tree  were 
fresh  and  vivid  to  her.  It  was  to  her  as  if  Gershom  had  leaped 
from  that  to  this.  As  if,  an  instant  ago,  he  had  said,  I  will  do  this, 
— as  if,  without  conscious  pause,  she  could  cry  to  him  exultingly,  O 
Gershie,  it  is  done  ! 

She  thought  too,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  she  had  achieved 
something.  To  have  grown  into  her  womanliness  and  beauty,  as 
lie  into  his  manliness  and  daring — was  this  nothing  ?  Would 
he  not  be  pleased  to  see  her  as  she  was  to-day  ?  This  her  little 
feminine — what-you-please,  gave  a  warmer  glow  to  her  anticipa- 
tion. 

And  what  came  of  it  ? 

A  grasping  of  hands  ;  a  greeting  of  words ;  great  asking  of 
questions  ;  brief,  sailorly  answers  ;  a  making  light  of  whatever  he 
had  done  ;  a  holding  back  of  the  very  thing  Say  secretly  felt  a 
share  in. 

He  talked  more  to  the  aunts  than  to  her.  Once  she  caught  a 
stray  glance, — something  of  the  old,  measuring  look,  taking  her  in, 
from  the  little  violet  neck-ribbon  to  the  hem  of  the  wide-floating 
summer  dress, — that  made  her  feel  suddenly  flimsy  before  him. 


Then  and  Now.  205 

the  stout,  brave  fellow,  in  rough  dark  blue,  with  hair  tossed  in 
an  unconscious  grace,  and  eyes  that  looked  straight  on.— that 
she  could  not  fancy  ever  had  stopped  short  at  a  self-image.  Well, 
would  he  have  her  dowdy?  A  woman  must  do  something  to 
herself.  It  would  be  more  painstaking  to  make  herself  a 
fright. 

So  she  lifted  up  her  head  in  a  little  assured,  defiant  way,  as  one 
who  could  not  help  it,  and  really  did  not  care  much  that  she  were 
young  and  pretty,— the  youngest  and  prettiest  there.  Also,  there 
must  be  a  first  tune  of  putting  on  anything ;  even  a  jaconet  with 
purple  pansies. 

She  got  away  into  the  dairy,  by  and  by,  with  Cousin  Wealthy, 
going  to  skim  the  cream  for  tea. 

"  He  doesn't  tell  us  half,"  said  she. 

"  He  isn't  much  for  glorifying  !  He  won't  go  round  tellin'  it 
over  and  over.  He  told  his  mother,  last  night.  And  I  suppose  he 
thinks  that's  enough." 

"  But  you  know.  Oh,  do  tell  me,  Cousin  Wealthy,  all  about 
it!" 

"  I  couldn't.  It  takes  a  sailor.  They  were  on  their  beam-ends, 
and  the  Lord  knows  what.  And  the  sea  made  a  clean  breach, 
and  they  were  knocked  about  amongst  lee-scuppers,  and  cabooses 
and  things  ;  and  two  men  were  washed  overboard.  And  the  top 
mainmast  went,  and  they  cut  away  the  rigging,  and  they  drove  be- 
fore the  wind  till  morning.  And  then  the  gale  went  down,  but 
there  was  a  great  leak,  and  the  men  were  for  getting  off  in  the 
boats.  But  the  Captain — that's  Gershom  you  know — "  Say 
nodded, — "  and  the  mate — that's  Blackmere,  his  great  friend, — 
said  no ;  they  should  stick  by  the  ship,  and  the  women.  There 
were  two  women  passengers,  one  of  'em  the  Cap'n's  widow,  and 
the  other  was  a  sick  lady  coming  home  from  Calcutta.  So,  at  that, 
the  men  were  shamed,  and  made  up  their  minds  to  stick  by  too. 
And  they  worked  away  at  the  pumps  ;  and  after  awhile  they  found 
the  leak ;  and  they  patched  and  rigged  up  again,  somehow,  and 
they  had  pleasant  weather  and  they  came  on.  And  they  say 
Gershie  saved  the  ship,  from  first  to  last.  It  was  all  in  the  paper 
he  brought  home  in  his  pocket ;  but  when  he'd  showed  it  to  his 
mother,  he  just  took  it  and  poked  it  under  the  kitchen  fire,  as  cool 
as  you  please.  I  think  it  kinder  worked  her,  not  to  have  it  to  put 
away  ;  but  she  was  prouder  of  him  for  his  doin'  it,  after  all.  She 
don't  talk  about  it ;  but  she  goes  round  looking — as  if  '  nobody  was 
Corporal  but  your  father  and  I  ! ' ' 

"  Oh,  belay,  Cousin  Wealthy !  Do  you  think  a  yarn's  the  better 
for  so  much  over-spinning  ?  " 

The  Captain  himself  said  this,  coming  in  suddenly,  at  the  door 
between  kitchen  and  dairy. 

Cousin  Wealthy  looked  a  little  abashed, — an  amateur  caught 
meddling  with  his  art  by  a  professional, — and  wondered  how  much 


206  The  Gayworthys. 

he  had  heard,  and  how  much  she  had  mixed  up  the  sea-phrases. 
Say  dropped  the  spoon  with  which  she  had  been  stirring  together 
a  whole  five-quart  pan  of  milk  with  its  twelve  hours'  rising  of 
cream,  while  she  listened  to  the  story, — and  made  a  spring  toward 
him. 

"  Oh,  Gershie ! "  she  cried,  "  I  knew  it !  I  always  knew  you 
would ! " 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  the  sailor.  But  he  did  not  say  it  roughly,  and 
he  could  but  take,  fora  moment,  the  two  little  hands  stretched  out 
to  him  in  eager  enthusiasm.  The  next  instant  they  were  dropped, 
and  Say  burned  all  over  at  the  thought  of  her  forwardness. 

All  Captain  Vorse  did  to  help  her,  was  to  walk  off,  first,  out  of 
the  dairy. 

"  If  he  isn't  easier  scared  than  pleased,"  said  Cousin  Wealthy 
to  herself,  in  an  amaze,  "  no  wonder  beam-ends  couldn't  start 
him  !" 

Fine  and  affected !  That  was  what  he  thought  of  her.  That 
was  what  she  had  done  with  her  purple  ribbons  and  puffs,  and  her 
gladness  and  her  pride  in  him.  People  do  feel  things  in  their 
bones,  or  more  interiorly.  Sarah  Gair  was  sure  of  this,  though 
Gershom  had  given  her  neither  word  nor  look  that  she  could  quite 
charge  with  proof  of  it.  Though  he  had  just  treated  her  like  any- 
body else.  Ah,  that  was  it !  The  old  time  was  gone,  and  their 
relation  in  it.  She  had  no  claim,  after  all ;  no  share  beyond 
others,  in  this  man-work  of  his,  though  she  had  listened  to  his  boy- 
dreams  and  left  her  play  for  them  ;  though  she  had  first  shown 
him  the  sea,  and  made  him  free  of  the  wonderful  Pearl.  He  was 
no  longer  "  Gershie  "  ;  though  she  did  forget  and  call  him  so,  and 
put  her  hands  out  to  him  in  that  ridiculous  way  that  he  only 
"  pshawed  "  at  and  didn't  care  for  the  feeling  of ;  he  was  a  great, 
brown,  whiskered  sea-captain  ;  he  never  once  called  her  Say ;  what 
a  fool  she  was  !  how  her  breath  quickened  and  her  face  tingled  as 
she  thought  of  it,  riding  home  silently  with  the  aunts,  in  the  dusky 
evening  ! 

She  knew  she  had  looked  stiff  and  silly  ;  she  had  not  been  her- 
self ;  she  could  not  do  herself  justice  in  his  presence  ;  she  was  so 
afraid — had  always  been — of  his  contempt. 

It  had  ended  miserably, — this  glad  day. 

At  the  same  moment,  Captain  Gershom  Vorse  was  driving  away 
the  thought  of  how  bright  and  pretty  the  girl  had  looked,  with  her 
glad,  eager  way,  and  her  outstretched  hands,  and  her  proud  con- 
gratulation spoken  in  eye  and  color  more  than  in  word, — with 
another  "  pshaw ! "  mental,  and  more  emphatic. 

He  did  not  believe  in  her ;  he  did  not  want  to  believe  in  her ; 
she  was  Jane  Gair's  child  ;  she  had  been  brought  up  to  that  vain, 
pretentious  city  life;  she  was  sham,  like  all  of  it.  And  she  wore 
puffed  muslin,  and  dainty  boots,  and  looked  like  a  thing  in  a  shop- 
window. 


Brown  Bread.  207 

At  the  best  what  business  had  such  as  Aunt  Jane  and  she  in  a 
world  like  this,  where  there  were  poverty  and  nakedness, — crime 
and  pain  and  danger  ?  Where  the  weak  were  wronged,  and  the 
miserable  trampled  under  foot,  and  the  ignorant  sat  in  darkness  ? 
Going  up  and  down  the  earth  had  he  not  seen  all  this, — he,  at 
twenty-five  even  ?  Living  among  rough,  rude,  brave,  generous, 
coarse,  vicious,  ill-used  men,  how  had  he  come  to  think  of  paltry 
life  like  theirs  ? 

What  would  Ned  Blackmere  say  to  such  a  woman  ?  The  rough, 
stalwart,  sterling  fellow,  whom  the  world  had  handled  so  fiercely, 
had  battered  and  banged  about,  but  had  never  banged  the  truth 
and  courage  out  of  ?  Who  would  stand  by  him,  in  his  grand 
loyalty  of  friendship,  to  the  last  plank  ? 

"  You've  got  a  mother,  boy,  make  much  of  her  ;  but  take  care  of 
your  bones  and  keep  clear  of  the  rest !" 

He  remembered  that  Blackmere  had  said  this  ;  the  man  who  had 
had  sister  and  wife. 

So  he  weighed  by  a  harsh  standard,  and  judged  with  a  bitter 
judgment,  borrowing  from  this  man  of  sterner,  harder  experience, 
the  girl-life  of  nineteen  years. 

Yet  this  very  weighing  and  judging, — what  did  it  prove  ?  That 
he  himself  was  but  twenty-five,  after  all.  That  he  could  not  put 
away,  without  much  thought,  this  image  of  his  little  playmate  Say. 
He  might  have  been  harder  ;  he  might  have  let  her  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BROWN   BREAD. 

SOMETHING  was  very  pleasant ;  something  was  horribly  uncom- 
fortable. 

These  two  flashes  of  sensation,  or  recollection  in  such  quick  suc- 
cession as  to  seem  mingled,  roused  Say  next  morning  to  complete 
wakefulness,  after  the  first  faint  creeping  back  of  consciousness, 
whereby  the  stray  elements  of  existence  concentred  themselves,  and 
made  her  aware,  first,  of  her  body  lying  on  the  bed,  then  of  the  life 
she  lived  in  it,  whose  thread  was  to  be  taken  up  again. 

This  mystery  of  sleep !  The  greater  mystery  of  waking  !  If  we 
could  fathom  them,  we  should  have  fathomed  ourselves,  and  Life, 
and  Death  ! 

From  the  child  who  goes  to  bed  with  his  last  new  toy  hugged  to 
his  bosom,  or  his  new  shoes  by  the  bedside,  to  the  man  or  woman 
with  the  last  deep  joy  or  mighty  grief  that  is  to  lie  still  awhile  and 
be  lost  only  for  an  intenser  grasp  upon  the  whole  soul  when  the 
soul  regathers  itself, — a  world  of  human  being  vanishes  nightly 
into  the  great  unknown,  and  orbs  itself  again  into  myriad  identities 


208  The  Gayworthys. 

at  the  recall  of  Day,  as  the  stars  were  born  out  of  darkness  when 
the  Voice  said — Let  there  be  Light ! 

To  begin  where  each  left  off.  With  the  hope — the  plan — the 
unfolding  knowledge — to  be  taken  up  as  it  was  dropped.  Grand 
or  trivial,  base  or  beneficent,  involving  an  hour's  pastime,  a  revela- 
tion of  science,  a  crime  completed,  a  nation's  fate,  a  soul's  salvation, 
— human  thought,  interest,  purpose,  whatever  it  may  be,  recovers 
itself  out  of  the  pause  and  darkness,  returning  inevitably  unto  its 
own. 

Gershom  was  come  back.  The  old  days  could  never  come 

back.  She  was  glad ;  she  was  disappointed ;  she  was  pained, 
puzzled,  ashamed  ;  a  little  resentful.  She  bit  her  lip  and  pressed 
her  face  down  into  her  pillow,  as  a  certain  quick  spasm  of  keen 
re-sufferance  came  over  her. 

She  did  not  care  !  She  had  done  nothing  wrong,  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  Only — she  would  never  do  it  again  ! 

Life  moved  forward  in  its  simple  channel.  To-day  need  not 
necessarily  continue  at  once  the  chief  interest  of  yesterday.  That 
lives,  but  bides  its  time. 

The  day  broadened.  Breakfast  was  done.  Say  and  Aunt  Jo- 
anna sat  in  the  south  chamber  window,  with  a  little  old-fashioned 
light-stand  between  them,  holding  their  bits  of  work  ;  and  it  hap- 
pened that  they  held  a  talk  together,  touching  by  chance  upon  a 
certain  other  interest  in  Sarah's  life,  not  wholly  detached  from  or 
irrelative  to  the  rest.  Nothing  is.  In  human  history  there  is, 
really  and  strictly,  no  such  thing  as  an  episode. 

It  was  Joanna's  window  ;  the  very  one  wherein  the  flutter  of 
white  draperies  and  the  shining  of  the  night-candle  had  been 
watched  years  ago,  and  might  be  still,  from  that  other  window 
opening  this  way  in  the  farmhouse  gable,  down  the  romd.  Joanna 
loved  this  window.  Had  this  and  that  to  do  with  each  other  ? 
She  made  her  customary  seat  here.  Every  woman  who  loves  wo- 
manly work,  has  her  nook  wherein  to  do  it.  Turn  her  out  of  it, 
and  she  is  all  astray ;  like  a  bird  with  her  nest  broken  up.  The 
brown  light-stand,  with  the  work-basket  and  the  Bible,  stood  here 
always.  And  there  was  a  holy  time  at  night,  when  the  answering 
gleam  came  from  the  red  gable,  when  without  ever  a  word  of  knowl- 
edge, two  hearts  told  themselves  of  the  one  thought  that  held  them 
both  ;  two  children  of  God  felt  themselves  one  in  Him  ;  their  souls 
finding  each  other  before  Him.  Non-professors  these,  both  of 
them ;  hardly  reckoned  among  the  elect,  according  to  old  church 
rules,  here  in  Hilbury ;  yet  the  one  looking  at  the  life  of  the  other, 
divined  its  secret  spring,  and  said  of  him,  "  That's  the  best  Chris- 
tian in  Hilbury ;  "  and  the  heart  of  the  other  hallowed  the  woman 
he  had  loved,  and,  thinking  of  her  nightly  prayer,  he  sent  up  his 
own  to  heaven  beside  it.  So  their  feet  walked  separate  paths ;  but 
their  spirits  went  God-ward,  hand  in  hand. 

It  is  not  the  sunshine,  or  any  other  tangible  why,  that  accounts 


Brown  Bread.  209 

for  the  pleasantness  of  old  house-corners.  It  is  the  pureness  and 
the  pleasantness  that  have  clustered  there ;  the  very  walls  have 
drank  these  in.  Shall  the  leaven  of  pest  lurk  and  infect,  and  these 
escape  ?  The  air  of  an  old  home  is  full  of  their  beneficent 
contagion. 

Say  could  not  have  told  the  reason,  but  she  was  always  especially 
peaceful  and  cheery  in  this  particular  south  window.  It  wrought 
with  her  now.  The  current  of  her  thoughts  was  turned.  Her 
spirits  reacted. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  born  in  the  country,  and  always  lived  here," 
she  said.  "  I  think  it  would  have  made  more  of  me.  People's 
lives  are  real,  here ;  and  everybody  has  one  of  their  own." 

Aunt  Joanna  lifted  her  eyebrows  a  little. 

"  And  not  in  the  city  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Not  half  so  much.  For  the  most  part,  they  seem  to  be  trying 
to  get  into  other  people's  lives.  And  then — everybody  makes  up 
their  mind  to  all  sponge-cake,"  Say  said,  laughing.  She  had 
never  forgotten  the  misdemeanor  of  her  childhood.  It  had  grown 
into  a  proverb  of  expression  with  her. 

"  And  the  sponge-cake  don't  go  round  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Say.  "  And,  oh  dear!  I've  been  so  hungry  some- 
times, for  plain  brown  bread  !  " 

Under  the  parable,  Joanna  knew  very  well,  what  the  child 
meant. 

"  It's  my  low  taste,  perhaps.  Mother  seems  to  think  so  ;  but 
I  like  nice  people  too.  Only  there's  a  kind  of  common,  comfort- 
able, really-in-earnest  living,  that  I  always  wanted  to  know  more 
about." 

"  Down  Gay  Street,  for  instance." 

"  O  yes :  how  I  did  use  to  wish,  sometimes,  that  we  lived  in  Gay 
Street !  I  shall  never  forget  the  Carpenters  in  that  second  house 
round  the  corner.  I  could  look  from  our  windows  right  over  into 
theirs.  There  were  four  of  them,  sisters  :  and  I  never  had  a 
sister !  They  went  to  some  town  school,  and  they  wore  dark 
calico  dresses  just  alike,  and  white  aprons  bound  with  colors  ;  and 
they  used  to  come  home  laughing  and  singing,  round  by  the  alley, 
and  in  at  the  yard-gate.  I've  watched  them,  and  listened  to  them 
by  the  hour,  playing  in  that  yard,  under  the  horse-chestnut.  They 
made  fairy-slippers,  pink  and  purple  and  white,  pulled  from  off  the 
balsam-blossoms ;  and  set  them,  by  pairs,  along  the  brick-edge  of 
the  border.  I  used  really  to  believe  the  fairies  came  at  night  and 
got  them.  In  the  winter,  they  stayed  up-stairs,  and  sat  in  the 
broad  window-seats  and  dressed  dolls.  Oh,  how  I  wished  I  was  a 
Carpenter  girl!  They  moved  away,  years  ago.  I've  heard  father 
say  that  Mr.  Carpenter  had  grown  a  rich  man  in  Boston.  But  I 
do  hope  those  girls  have  as  good  a  time  together  as  they  used  to 
then  ! " 

"  And  you  never  played  with  them  ?  " 


2io  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Well, — not  lawfully,  or  comfortably.  I  did  get  into  the  alley 
sometimes,  and  they  '  pulled  me  in  '  ;  father  used  to  laugh  so  at 
that  excuse  !  But  it  was  one  of  the  strictly  forbidden  things." 

"  I  suppose  mothers  know  best,  and  city  is  different  from  coun- 
try; but  I  don't  think  the  brown  bread  would  have  hurt  you." 

Say,  sat  still  a  minute,  her  two  hands  on  her  lap  holding  her 
work,  forgetfully;  presently  a  smile  crept  up  to  her  eyes,  and  she 
lifted  them,  smile  and  all,  to  Joanna,  saying,  with  a  quiet,  quaint 
little  mischief  of  her  own,  "There's  one  little  cupboard,  though, 
where  I  do  go  and  get  a  bit,  now  and  then." 

Joanna  waited. 

"  And,  rich  or  poor,  Grace  Lowder  has  more  in  her  than  any  girl 
I  ever  knew." 

"  Who  is  Grace  Lowder  ?  " 

"  She's  a  seamstress.  I  never  go  without  my  mother's  knowl- 
edge ;  and  most  often  it  is  about  the  work.  But  I  carry  her  things 
sometimes, — fruit,  and  flowers,  and  books  ;  and  sit  and  read  to  her 
while  she  works.  Mother  doesn't  object  to  that ;  it  is  different ;  it 
is  charity  ;  Grace  Lowder  is  quite  beneath  me  ;  she  never  need  be 
invited  and  meet  other  people,  you  know." 

Joanna's  lip  curled  a  little,  involuntarily  "  How  came  you  to 
know  so  much  of  her  ?  "  she  said. 

"  She  comes  to  St.  James  Sunday  School.  I  never  noticed  her 
till  one  day  Doctor  Linslee  brought  her  to  our  class.  Her  teacher 
was  absent,  and  all  her  class,  except  herself.  We  all  stared  a 
little,  I  suppose,  as  she  came  in.  But  I  stared  because  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Some  of  the  girls  looked  at  her  in  that  hard,  strange, 
astonished  way  they  have,  as  if  it  weren't  quite  certain  what  order 
of  natural  history  she  belonged  to.  But  I  thought  I  had  never 
seen  anything  more  lovely.  She  had  on  a  soft  woolen  dress,  of 
that  purple-gray, — just  like  those  grass-blooms  ;  "  Say  glanced 
across  at  an  old  china  vase  upon  a  corner  shelf,  filled  with  grace- 
ful spears  and  tassels,  among  which  peculiar,  soft,  gray-purple, 
feathery  heads,  in  the  perfection  of  their  natural  tint,  were  heaped 
conspicuously;  "and  her  shawl  was  gray,  with  a  narrow  stripe  ( f 
purple  in  the  border;  her  bonnet,  too,  with  a  plain  purple  ribbon 
crossed  upon  it.  But  her  face  was  so  sweet  !  She  is  almost 
always  pale,  I  know  now  ;  her  skin  is  fine  and  clear  as  a  roseleaf ; 
but  she  was  a  little  frightened  at  us  all,  and  she  had  such  a  bright, 
lovely  color  !  And  when  she  lifted  her  eyes,  they  were  purple- 
gray,  too,  with  long  lashes.  And  her  lips  looked  half  sad  and  half 
happy,  just  dropped  a  little  at  the  corners,  and  tucked  away  into 
dimples  that  showed  with  the  least  tremble.  She  was  just  like  a 
picture.  But  she  had  a  crutch,  auntie ;  she  was  lame.  And  yet 
she  was  as  graceful  as  she  could  be.  She  drooped  down,  some- 
how, into  her  seat,  without  any  spread  or  rustle ;  and  the  gray 
dress  fell  round  her  like  a  cloud.  Nothing  she  had  on  was  new  ; 
but  everything  was  as  nice  as  new, — without  a  speck.  I  think 


Brown  Bread.  211 

that  is  the  thing ;  anybody  can  put  on  new  clothes,  and  be  spick- 
and-span  ;  but  everybody  can't  wear  them,  and  wear  them,  and 
look  as  if  they'd  never  been  near  any  dirt." 

"  Well — that  was  the  beginning  of  it.  Her  teacher  was  sick 
and  had  to  give  up  her  class  ;  and  the  scholars  were  divided  round. 
<irace  Lowder  stayed  with  us.  Miss  Westburn  went  to  see  her, 
and  found  out  all  about  her;  and  she  spoke  to  some  of  us  about 
her  wishing  for  more  work  to  do ;  sewing  or  dress-making ;  her 
mother  had  been  a  dressmaker,  and  had  taught  her  the  trade;  but 
she  had  died  a  year  before.  Miss  Westburn  was  married  the  next 
summer,  and  she  gave  her  her  wedding-dress  to  make.  After  that 
she  had  plenty  of  work  ;  and  mother  has  let  me  go  to  her.  She 
works  at  people's  houses  when  they  wish  it,  but  I  don't  wish  it ;  I 
couldn't  bear  that,  Aunt  Joanna  !  Grace  Lowder's  little  room  is 
the  pleasantest  place  I  know  in  Selport! 

"  She  boards  and  lodges  just  where  she  did  for  years,  while  her 
mother  lived.  A  nice,  comfortable  widow  woman  keeps  the  house ; 
she  was  very  kind  to  her  mother,  Grace  says ;  and  Grace  has  no- 
body else  in  the  world  to  go  to.  I  asked  her  one  day  what  she 
would  do,  if  Mrs.  Hopeley  died,  or  went  away.  She  may  go,  some- 
time, to  live  with  one  of  her  sons,  who,  she  says,  are  '  likely  men, 
both  of  'em,  and  very  forrard  in  their  means ; '  but  Grace  only 
smiled,  and  said  there  would  always  be  a  place  for  her  in  the 
world,  as  long  as  God  kept  her  here  ;  she  was  not  afraid." 

Aunt  Joanna  broke  in  here. 

"And  this  is  Selport  brown  bread  !  I  don't  know  what  the  fine 
wheat  must  be,"  said  she. 

"  Tasteless  enough,  sometimes, — the  heart  all  bolted  out  of  it," 
said  Say. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  about  her  room,"  she  resumed,  after  a 
little  pause  of  stitching  that  she  made  between  her  paragraphs. 
"  It  is  a  corner  house,  where  two  streets  cross,  two  narrow  streets; 
and  the  angles  of  the  blocks  are  cut  off,  and  the  front  doors  set  in 
at  the  corners.  It  is  a  queer  little  square ;  some  person  of  odd 
taste  must  have  been  the  owner  of  the  property,  and  laid  it  out 
and  built  it  up  to  please  himself.  There  are  the  four  sociable 
front  doors,  and  four  windows  over  them,  facing  each  other  diag- 
onally, and  looking  each  other  right  through, — like  the  four  cats 
in  the  riddle.  Grace  Lowder's  room  is  the  second-story  one.  The 
two  side  windows  she  keeps  for  her  plants.  The  corner  one  she 
sits  in,  at  her  sewing.  Opposite  this  is  a  corner  fireplace.  On 
one  side  is  her  bed,  and  in  the  other  a  wide  press-closet.  She  has 
a  little  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a  few  books; 
and  the  coarse  old  carpet — with  bright,  strong  colors,  though,  that 
make  it  look  cheery — is  always  swept  up  clean  of  every  shred,  and 
always  has  the  sun  shining  on  it, — that  is,  unless  it  don't  shine  any- 
where,— for  it  is  a  southwest  corner.  And  Grace  Lowder  lives 
the  happiest,  sweetest,  most  contented  life  there!'' 


212  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Why,  Say,  it's  brown  bread  to  make  your  mouth  water !  " 

"  Down  the  street,  to  the  west, — that  narrow  street,  auntie,  be- 
tween the  high,  close  houses, — she  has  a  view.  She  calls  it  so. 
The  tops  of  a  few  green  trees  in  some  gardens  in  Front  Street, — a 
little  sparkle  of  the  bay,  and  a  stripe  of  sky.  And  she  watches 
every  night  for  the  sunsets  !  One  little  scrap  of  a  crimson  cloud 
perhaps,  or  the  stripe  of  sky  turned  yellow  and  shading  up  into 
blue  between  the  chimney-tops  !  What  would  she  say  to  look  out 
here  over  the  sea  of  little  hills  ?  Or  to  get  at  Cousin  Wealthy's 
dairy  window  and  see  down  the  mountain  side,  out  over  the  great 
pond?  " 

"  You  say  she  goes  to  work  at  people's  houses  ?  "  asked  Joanna, 
rather  irrelevantly,  as  it  might  seem,  to  the  last  sentences. 

"  When  they  want  her,  yes ;  but  I  think  she  likes  her  little  room 
best." 

"  Would  she  come  a  hundred  miles  think,  if  she  could  be  paid 
for  it  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Joanna  !     You  don't  mean — " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  do.  But  I  feel  exactly  just  at  this  minute,  as 
if  I  was  going  to  have  a  monstrous  deal  of  sewing  to  do,  sometime 
or  other.  Next  summer  perhaps." 

As  she  said  this,  Gershom  Vorse  came  riding  into  the  side-yard. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

UP  BOAR-BACK. 

JOANNA  went  down-stairs.  Say  did  not  stir.  Further  than  to 
draw  a  little  nearer  to  the  window,  and  lean  slightly  toward  the 
half-closed  blind  that  had  shaded  them  pleasantly  from  the  south- 
ward-sweeping sun. 

If  Gershom  wanted  her, — or  if  he  even  got  off  his  horse  and 
came  in, — but  neither  of  these  things  did  he  signify  or  do  ;  so 
presently  Aunt  Joanna  came  back  again,  and  the  horse's  hoofs 
went  crunching  the  dry,  savory  chips,  and  then  struck  off  with 
sounding  thud  across  the  sward. 

"  Skylark  has  been  out  on  a  flitting,"  Joanna  said,  re-entering. 
She  meant  Miss  Purcell,  daughter  of  the  Congressman  at  Deep- 
water,  a  youngest  child  left  at  home  now,  to  be  spoiled,  since  her 
elder  sister  and  the  boys  were  gone.  She  was  a  wilful,  winsome 
thing ;  they  called  her  Skylark,  as  much  for  her  glad,  bright,  sun- 
loving  nature,  as  for  her  merry,  saucy,  daring  flights.  Also  her 
real  name  was  an  uncouth,  grandmother's  name, — Bathsheba. 
Nobody  ever  could  call  her  so;  it  was  folly  to  have  demanded  it. 
Skylark  grew  to  be  her  ordinary  appellative ;  shortened,  indeed,  to 
Skylie  ;  the  nickname  nicked. 


Up  Boar- Back.  213 

"  She  lit  upon  Gershom  at  the  Bridge,"  continued  Joanna,  with- 
out all  this  pause  that  we  have  made,  "  and  chirped  him  an  errand 
and  sent  him  round.  She's  to  chirp  us  all  up  Boar-back  next 
Saturday.  We're  to  meet  at  the  Corners,  and  go  up  at  two  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  glorious.     Then  you'll  go  ?  " 

"  I — don't  know.  It's  eight  years  since  I  tried  it.  And  I'm 
eight  years  older — and  fatter,  you  see ;  and  I  don't  know  which 
dress  I'd  better  tear  to  pieces," 

"  Pooh !  make  yourself  just  as  lovely  as  you  can,  and  never 
mind  your  dress  till  you  get  home  again." 

"  Make  yourself  lovely  !  Well,  you'll  see  !  People  come  home 
from  Boar-back  in  ribbons." 

"  That's  gay,  I'm  sure." 

"  Strings  and  streamers,  I  tell  you." 

"  How  merry  !  '  Some  in  rags,  and  some  in  jags,  and  some  in 
velvet  gowns ! '  '  With  a  band  of  music — with  a  band  of  music, 
with  a  band  of  music  sounding  in  the  air  ! ' ' 

Say  quoted  and  sung,  and  danced  her  feet  upon  the  floor  to 
time.  Her  eyes  danced  too,  with  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  Joanna.  "  Only  I  hope  the  two  she-bears 
won't  come  out  of  the  wood  and  tear  the  naughty  children." 

"  Because  they  say,  '  go  up,'  to  their  elders  ?  that's  the  worst 
we've  done;  we've  no  chance  at  the  'bald  head'  part  here  in  Hil- 
bury  where  the  old  ladies  all  have  such  magnificent  hair." 

Joanna  smiled.  She  knew  her  brown,  wavy  locks  were  as  soft, 
and  bright  and  abundant,  as  a  dozen  years  ago.  She  cherished 
this  and  some  other  little  vanities,  quite  quietly  and  secretly.  She 
was  glad  her  young  looks  waited.  What  for  ?  She  never  answered 
herself ;  many  a  woman  keeps  young,  she  knows  not  how,  because, 
without  saying  it,  she  feels  her  future  is  not  dead. 

Perhaps  Say  made  the  most  of  her  impulse  of  delight ;  perhaps 
she  over-acted  just  a  little,  feeling  an  under-pang  of  annoyance. 
Yet  she  was  really  joyous  at  the  thought.  She  trembled  on  the 
verge  of  what  might  come  to  be  a  sorrow  ;  but  it  was  not  sorrow 
yet ;  she  knew  nothing  of  her  danger.  It  was  vexatious  that  Ger- 
shom should  be  so  chilling — so  indifferent ;  that  he  should  have 
"pshawed"  last  night,  and  refused  to  come  in  this  morning;  but 
then  it  was  his  way,  and  he  was  very  likely  in  a  hurry ;  and  on 
Saturday  they  should  all  go  up  Boar-back  together,  and  somehow, 
it  would  all  come  right.  Say's  was  one  of  those  elastic  tempera- 
ments that  until  the  last  opportunity  is  over,  — the  last  resource  ex- 
hausted,— the  last  hope  crushed, — will  rebound  from  every  check, 
spring  up  from  under  very  disappointment.  She  was  patient, 
like  a  sister,  with  Gershom.  Had  they  not  been  little  children 
together  ?  Would  they  not  always  be  something  to  each  other  ? 

For  a  while  this  might  last ;  but  Sarah  Gair  was  nineteen  ;  she 
was  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  woman  ;  and  her  hour  was  coming. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  left  his  father  with  Mary  Makepeace,  and  a 


214  The  Gayworthys. 

neighbor  gossip  came  in  with  her  clean  cap  and  her  knitting-work, 
to  spend  the  long  country  afternoon,  and  drove  Joanna  and  Say  in 
the  wagon  to  the  Corners.  It  was  one  of  his  brief  holidays. 

It  was  one  of  Joanna's  young  days  back  again. 

Joanna  had  on  stout  country  shoes,  laced  up  high  on  the  instep. 
Say  wore  cloth  boots  with  patem  foxings  ;  nice,  bright,  trim  little 
things,  thick  enough,  but  delicate  looking,  such  as  she  walked  in, 
in  Selport. 

Gershom  helped  them  down  from  the  wagon  when  they  came  up 
at  the  cross-roads  below  the  mountain,  where  the  party  met.  Say 
knew  he  glanced  at  the  foot  she  put  upon  the  thill ;  what  woman 
with  a  pretty  one  does  not  know  when  it  is  seen  ?  And,  though 
he  never  said  a  word,  she  felt  a  secret  shaft  from  his  thought  to 
hers. 

"  There,  he's  disgusted  again !  At  the  very  beginning !  He 
thinks  it's  all  show-off  and  vanity.  And  it's  the  very  clumsiest 
pair  I  ever  had  in  all  my  life." 

From  the  days  of  the  bronze  boots  until  now,  the  child's  feet 
had  inevitably  walked  her  into  trouble  with  the  captious  fellow. 
Don't  hate  him.  He  secretly  saw  the  prettiness,  just  as  we  do. 
He  was  only  provoked  with  himself  when  he  caught  himself  ad- 
miring what  he  thought  a  flimsiness.  And  he  was  so  sternly  bent 
on  not  admiring  Sarah  Gair ;  because  she  was  her  mother's  child, 
and  he  would  not  believe  in  her. 

He  is  a  sailor ;  and  has  learned  to  hold  his  position  in  the  teeth 
of  the  wind ;  perhaps  he  may  hold  it  now. 

Say  walked  on  without  waiting  for  anybody.  Some  of  the  first 
arrived  had  gone  forward  already,  up  the  hillocky  slope,  matted 
here  and  there  with  the  close,  flat  junipers,  that  rose  slowly  toward 
the  base  of  Boar-back.  The  mountain  began  away  out  here  to 
gather  up  the  earth  into  its  mass,  as  the  moon  draws  up  the  sea 
in  breasted  heaps. 

They  strayed  along  in  little  groups  winding  in  and  out  as  they 
found  pathway.  They  might  scatter  thus,  for  the  approach  was 
broad.  By  and  by,  they  must  file  singly  and  toilsomely  up  the 
narrow,  rocky  footway  where  the  real  climb  awaited  them. 

Skylie  Purcell  appropriated  Gershom.  Three  or  four  village 
girls  kept  near  enough  these  two  to  claim  a  share  of  attention. 
Say  listened  to  the  laughing  and  the  jesting  behind  her,  keeping 
her  face  straight  on. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  persuade  the  Captain  ?  We  never 
can  coax  him  into  anything." 

"  I  didn't  stop  to  coax.  I  just  told  him  he  was  to  come.  Haven't 
you  country  girls  learned  how  to  take  hold  of  a  thistle  ?  " 

"  Was  that  it,  Captain  Vorse  ?  " 

"  Something  so,  I  suppose.  She  told  me  straight  out  what  she 
wanted.  I'm  used  to  short  orders,  you  know." 

"  And  1   never  get  frightened,"  said  Skylie.     "  I  go  upon  the 


Up  Boar-Back.  215 

principle  that  the  most  terrible  people  are  the  most  easily  bullied. 
You  see  they  never  think  of  anybody's  trying  it,  and  it  takes  them 
right  down.  Captain  Vorse,  I  want  a  moosewood  stick,  presently. 
You'll  cut  me  one." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall." 

"  That's  very  meek ;  but  it  isn't  a  sailor's  answer,  I  happen  to 
know." 

"  What  is  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay, — ma'am  !  "  The  first  syllables  round  and  full,  in  very 
pretty  man-mimicry,  and  the  last  word  with  an  indescribable  comic 
tone  of  confessed  absurdity,  but  a  contradict-me-if-you-dare  in- 
sistence. 

They  all  laughed  merrily.  It  takes  little  to  make  a  young  group 
do  that. 

Say  felt  herself  getting  cross.  Did  he  like  that  ?  she  wondered. 
She  couldn't  have  spoken  to  him  with  such  pertness,  though  she 
had  known  him  years  for  Skylie's  days.  It  was  the  outrightness 
that  pleased  him,  was  it?  People  might  well  be  outright  where 
they  had  only  little  surface  knowledge  and  interest.  Say's  thought 
went  deep  whenever  she  talked  with  Gershom,  laying  hold  at  the 
roots  of  their  two  lives.  And  he  always  seemed  to  measure  her 
whole  nature  by  her  lightest  word.  A  corollary  to  be  drawn  from 
this  had  never  yet  occurred  to  either  of  them. 

Gabriel  and  Joanna  and  Ruth  Gibson  came  round  to  Say's  side 
from  beyond  the  cedar  clump  that  had  divided  them.  Stephen 
Gibson  and  John  Blighe,  escorting  the  advance,  lingered  a  little 
as  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  above ;  looking  round,  as 
they  said  for  "  the  rest " ;  their  eyes  turned  with  one  accord  to- 
ward Sarah  Gair. 

Into  a  little  glade  where  a  clear  spring  hid  itself,  they  all  came 
presently  together.  The  young  men  filled  canteens  to  carry  up 
the  mountain.  The  girls  sat  down  on  fallen  trees  and  mossy  rocks, 
chatting  and  resting.  Gershom  Vorse  plunged  into  a  thicket 
where  the  moosewood  grew  with  its  tough  grained  stems  and 
broad  thick  leaves,  and  cut  with  his  sailor's  knife  stout  staves  for 
climbing-poles.  Gabriel  trimmed  and  pealed  one  he  had  found 
already,  rounding  the  end  carefully,  and  gave  it,  smooth,  finished, 
and  delicate-white,  to  Joanna,  first  of  all. 

"  Cut  me  one,  please,"  said  Say.  And  she  sat  watching  him  as 
he  shaped  it  when  Gershom  appeared  again  with  his  three. 

"  This  is  mine,"  she  said,  scarce  glancing  round,  as  he  held  one 
toward  her,  after  Skyhe  Purcell  had  chosen.  "  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Hartshorne,"  in  a  little  ecstasy ;  "  it  is  such  a  beauty ! " 

They  moved  on  again,  over  braky  ground,  and  among  bosks  of 
rampant  sweet-fern.  Say  came  next  after  Joanna,  and  gave  her 
hand  with  an  air  of  specially  charmed  readiness,  to  Gabriel,  help- 
ing her  in  turn,  along  a  huge,  dry  slippery  log  that  lay  over  a 
springy  spot.  Gershom  saw  the  little  affectation,  and  set  it  down 


216  The  Gayworthys. 

sheer,  self-pleased  vanity,  not  seeing  it  quite  through.  He  had 
no  business  to  condemn.  There  are  hypocrisies  of  women,  which, 
read  aright,  are  truest  truths.  Should  Say  have  gone  straight  up 
to  Gershom,  saying,  "  You  are  to  come  with  me ;  it  is  you  I  want 
to  help  me  ?  " 

Skylie  Purcell  might  do  this,  and  it  would  be  simple  outright- 
ness.  It  would  not  have  told  the  truth  for  Say.  That  was  better 
done  by  the  little  crookedness.  Only,  one  can't  read  cipher  with- 
out the  key. 

"  They  were  to  be  all  together,  going  up  Boar-back."  This  was 
what  Say  had  said  to  herself  the  other  day ;  and  the  opportunity 
lay  large  and  golden  to  her  thought.  Well — here  they  were  ;  what 
then  ?  Gershom  was  close  behind  her,  climbing  up  the  narrow 
path,  as  Gabriel  Hartshorne  was  before.  He  might  as  well  have 
been  beyond  the  seas.  Skylie  Purcell  chattered  over  his  shoulder, 
and  Say  said  never  a  word.  Gabriel  held  aside  the  tangled 
branches  for  her,  and  Gershom  caught  them,  in  his  turn  again, 
smoothing  the  way  for  Skylie. 

The  ascent  grew  rougher.  It  was  the  old  bed  of  a  mountain- 
brook,  long  ago  forced  into  some  different  channel  from  high  above, 
that  made  their  path.  There  were  rocks  where  water  had  gone 
tumbling  down,  and  logs  lying  athwart  the  narrow  gully,  making 
long  steps  and  scrambles  for  them.  Up  these,  sometimes,  a  strong 
arm  lifted  her ;  it  happened  so,  from  the  necessity, — that  was  all, 
and  so  she  scarcely  thanked  him,  but  kept  on,  not  looking  round. 

A  great  barricade  had  fallen,  tangled,  mossgrown  timber  made 
an  end  of  the  brook-path,  and  stopped  them,  half-way  up.  This 
was  the  customary  halt  and  resting-place.  Here  the  single  file  was 
broken,  and  they  scattered  themselves  in  groups,  again.  Joanna, 
a  little  short  of  breath,  and  not  slightly  flushed  in  face, — yet  bright, 
and  even  very,  very  pretty  for  all  that  and  her  old  maidenhood, — 
leaned  herself  willingly  back  in  a  wild  armchair  of  dead,  curving, 
upturned  roots,  upon  a  huge  gray  log.  Say  sprang  over  this,  and 
perched  herself  higher.  John  Blighe  and  the  Gibsons  found 
places  near  her.  Skylie  Purcell  and  Gershom  coming  last,  were 
still  left  to  each  other, — Skylie  contenting  herself  with  a  low, 
mossy  cricket  of  stone,  and  the  Captain  half  sitting,  half  leaning 
against  the  farther  upturned  end,  above  and  against  which  all  the 
lesser  debris  were  piled. 

It  was  a  rough  little  amphitheater  of  rocks  and  stems  and 
branches ;  the  fresh  faces  and  graceful  figures  and  dresses  of 
summer  colors  filled  up  its  irregular  niches  with  wonderful  effect 
of  fitness  and  contrast. 

They  passed  round  shining  little  tin-cups,  filled  from  the  canteens, 
and  drank  and  chatted  ;  growing  merry  over  their  innocent  tipple. 

"  Now,  Captain  Vorse,  we  want  a  yarn ;  a  real  sailor's  yarn  !  " 

Skylie  looked  up  and  said  this  with  her  most  unrefusable  ex- 
pression. 


Up  Boar-Back.  217 

"  O  yes,  a  yarn  !  a  yarn  !  "  echoed  the  galleries,  away  up  to  little 
Jimmy  Gibson,  roosting  overhead  upon  an  oak  limb. 

Gershom's  brown  face  flushed  red.  He  never  cared  to  tell  stories 
of  his  personal  adventure, — and  what  else  could  a  sailor's  yarn  be  ? 

Sarah  Gair  listened  with  one  ear, — waiting  his  first  word  of 
reply ;  the  other  she  turned  to  Stephen  Gibson,  catching  his  sen- 
tences that  she  cared  not  a  straw  for,  but  which  she  answered 
with  the  mechanical  dexterity  women — tormented  daily  all  their 
lives  in  this  wise — have  such  special  aptness  for. 

"Oh,  I'm  no  yarn-spinner,"  said  the  young  Captain,  evasively. 
"  Besides,  I'm  not  old  salt  enough  to  have  so  very  much  to  tell." 

"  We  know  better,'  said  Skylie,  decidedly.  "  Tell  us  something 
to  make  us  catch  our  breaths,  and  think  surely  it's  been  all  over 
with  you  half  a  dozen  times,  even  while  we're  listening  and  looking 
you  full  in  the  face.  That's  what  sailors  come  home  from  sea  for! " 

"  Is  it  ?  But  you  won't  understand  half  I  say,  if  I  tell  you  a 
real  sea-story." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  don't  know  any  sea-phrases  except,  '  heave- 
yoy  ! '  and  '  ay,  ay,  ma'am  ! '  That's  the  beauty  of  it.  That 
makes  the  story  grand,  and  frightens  us  so  much  more." 

Gershom  Vorse  began  then,  taking  them  by  surprise  with  his 
acquiescence,  making  no  more  preface.  He  was  not  a  girl,  to  hang 
back,  saying  neither  no  nor  yes. 

"  When  we  were  out  in  the  Pearl,  seven  years  or  so,  ago,  bound 
to  Pernambuco,  we  had  a  young  sailor  in  the  starboard  watch, — 
Jack " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  we  don't  care  about  Jack  anybody.  We  wanted  a 
story  about  yourself !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  talk  about  myself.  Will  you  have  the  story, 
or  not  ?  " 

The  captain  said  this  quietly, — pleasantly, — and  waited.  It 
was  plain  to  Miss  Purcell  that  he  was  captain,  after  all.  She  with- 
drew her  point  with  a  show  of  command  still,  insisting  on  the 
previous  question. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.  We  shan't  let  you  off  from  that.  I'm  glad 
he  was  in  the  starboard  watch,  whatever  that  is.  It  sounds  nice." 

She  settled  her  dress  about  her  a  little  comfortably,  and  rested 
tier  chin  in  a  plump,  pretty  hand,  looking  up  with  saucy  expectation, 
into  Gershom's  face. 

Quite  unmoved,  he  proceeded. 

"  It  isn't  much  of  a  story.  Only  a  bit  of  danger,  over  in  five 
minutes  ;  and  sooner,  in  the  telling.  We  were  nearly  off  Trinidad, 
— you  know  where  that  is  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.  That's  geography.  And  '  off '  means, — any- 
where between  Guiana  and  away  over, — to  Guinea,  say  ?  " 

"  Anywhere  less  than  half-way,"  said  Gershom,  smiling. 

"  We  were  in  latitude  about  twelve  degrees,  just  coming  into 
the  Doldrums." 


218  The  Gayworthys. 

Skylie  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Haven't  the  least  idea  what  that  is,"  she  said,  sotto  voce.  "  It's 
growing  very  imposing." 

"  It's  the  latitude  of  sudden  changes, — calms  and  gales." 

"  Just  my  latitude,"  parenthesized  the  girl,  in  a  whisper,  like  a 
child  bent  on  mischief,  but  afraid  of  being  chidden. 

"  We'd  been  lying  about  for  three  days.— nearly  a  dead  calm, 
— when  one  afternoon  toward  sunset,  a  fresh  breeze  sprang  up 
from  the  eastward.  Set  all  sail  to  catch  it,  and  it  came  up  fresher 
and  fresher,  till  we  were  off  before  it,  on  the  full  jump.  We  made 
the  most  of  it  while  we  could,  for  we  knew  by  the  looks  of  a  big 
black  bank  to  the  southeast  that  we  should  get  more  than  we 
wanted  before  morning.  At  midnight  the  starboard  watch  went 
below  and  turned  in." 

"  Turned  in, — what  ?  " 

"  Themselves, — into  their  berths.  I  thought  you  wanted  it  to 
be  mysterious." 

"  O  yes,  so  I  do ;  go  on." 

"  Things  were  creaking  and  straining,  then ;  and  we  kept  half 
an  eye  open,  expecting  a  call.  Sure  enough,  in  less  than  an  hour 
it  came!  All  hands,— reef  tops 'Is!  We  tumbled  up  and  found 
the  mate's  watch  busy  enough ;  all  the  light  sails  taken  in,  topsail 
yards  braced  to  the  wind,  men  hauling  out  upon  the  reef-tackles." 

Skylie  clapped  her  hands  again,  soundlessly,  and  gave  a  little 
ecstatic  bounce  upon  her  stone  cricket.  It  was  growing  delight- 
fully exciting  and  incomprehensible. 

"  The  wind  had  shifted  to  the  southeast  and  the  storm  was  upon 
us.  The  night  was  black  as  Egypt.  The  darkness  was  like  a 
weight.  We  groped  out  upon  the  yards,  holding  on  for  dear  life, 
the  wind  blowing  a  hurricane.  The  best  sailor  on  board  had  the 
weather-earing  on  our  yard,  and  it  took  his  best  to  pass  it  in  time. 
We  had  mastheaded  our  sail  first,  though,  and  were  down  on 
deck  before  the  larbowlines,  breathless  and  wet  through  ;  for  the 
storm  was  a  peeler  and  no  mistake.  The  brig  was  pitching  into 
a  tremendous  head  sea,  The  waves  came  crashing  over  the  fore- 
castle, every  now  and  then,  with  the  sound  of  the  shattering  white 
foam  we  could  not  see.  '  Lay  out  there  forward  and  furl  the  jib  ! ' 
Ned  Blackmere  was  the  one  to  go,  as  he  always  was  when  there 
was  tough  work  to  do.  Close  by  him,  as  the  mate  gave  his  order, 
was  a  young  fellow  just  down  from  the  fore  top  ;  a  mother's  child, 
sent  to  sea  by  doctor's  prescription  for  his  health  ;  never  made  for 
a  sailor.  It  was  his  second  voyage,  and  he  ought  to  have  been  up 
to  it,  if  he  ever  would  ;  but  he  had  no  nerve,  and  precious  little 
muscle.  He  was  in  the  larboard  watch,  and  it  fairly  belonged  to 
him.  But  he  hung  back  a  little  ;  in  another  second,  he'd  have  been 
ordered  by  name, — for  our  mate  never  stood  any  shirking, — only 
Jack,  seeing  how  it  was,  and  knowing  if  he  was  once  out  over  the 
bows  there'd  be  a  fair  chance  he'd  never  come  in  again,  sprung 


Up  Boar- Back.  219 

past  him  and  took  the  poor  devil's  place.  He  thought  of  his 
mother  before  he  got  back  between  the  knight-heads,  again,  I 
promise  you. 

"  The  boom  was  under  water  half  the  time.  The  big  sail  was 
jerking  and  filling,  and  the  two  had  their  hands  full  to  hold  them- 
selves on,  to  say  nothing  of  getting  it  down  upon  the  boom." 

Skylie  broke  in  timidly. 

"I  must  just  know  where  the  boom  is,  and  how  it  could  possi- 
bly get  under  water.  I  thought  from  the  danger,  it  must  be  some- 
thing very  high  up.  ' 

Nobody  laughed.  They  were  all  too  much  absorbed  by  this 
time,  with  the  peril. 

"  It's  the  spar  that  runs  out  beyond  the  bowsprit, — at  the  head 
of  the  vessel.  As  the  sea  broke  over,  and  the  vessel  pitched,  of 
course  it  went  under.  There  was  only  the  wet  timber  to  hold  on 
to,  with  the  water  dashing  over  you  by  the  ton,  and  the  canvas 
slatting  out  and  in,  in  great  bights,  as  soon  as  it  was  loosed  ;  like 
the  side  of  a  house  driving  against  you." 

"  Oh  !  "  gasped  Skylie  ;  and  her  nonsense  all  went  out  of  her  in 
a  shudder. 

•  Xed  Blackmere  shouted  like  the  tempest  itself,  to  the  men 
hauling  in  on  deck.  And  he  tugged  like  a  great  brave  tiger  at 
the  work  ,  Jack  holding  on  and  helping  as  he  best  might ;  when, 
just  as  they  had  passed  half  a  dozen  turns  with  the  gasket,  there 
reared  up  a  black,  monstrous  wall  just  ahead  that  they  felt  before- 
hand, as  you  feel  a  door  when  you're  running  against  it  in  the  dark, 
and  down  it  came  with  a  hundred  thunders  over  the  bows  and 
the  whole  forward  deck.  Ned  held  on  by  some  miracle,  and, 
coming  up  out  of  it  gasping,  found  himself  alone  on  the  boom. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  '  miracle  '  so  soon  ;  for  though  it  seemed 
one,  that  even  he  should  have  escaped  being  washed  away,  it  was 
more  than  a  miracle  what  happened  to  the  other.  He  went  down 
off  the  boom,  struggling  and  grasping  out.  He  felt  the  sprit-sail 
yard  as  the  wave  dashed  him  athwart  it ;  and  something  caught 
him,  or  he  it,  hands  and  feet,  he  never  knew  how.  But  he  clung, 
all  blind  and  stunned,  and  smothered ;  and  then — I  take  it — he 
thought  of  his  mother.  Ned  Blackmere  said  afterwards,  the  time 
seemed  like  a  month  between  his  turning  round  and  finding  him 
gone,  and  catching  his  breath  and  shouting  out,  and  the  fellow's 
crawling  up  by  the  guys  and  dolphin-striker.  But  there  he  was, 
— a  little  bruised,  and  a  good  deal  blown ;  and  all  Ned  said  was — 
•  Hallo,  shipmate !  Took  the  longest  way  round  !  Just  make  fast 
that  gasket  now,  can  you,  inside  the  cap  ! '  That's  all,  Miss  Purcell. 
Those  are  the  sort  of  things  that  happen  to  sailors.  Sometimes 
they  come  out  of  'em,  and  sometimes  they  don't." 

They  were  all  still  an  instant,  as  the  story  ended.  Then  Skylie 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  exclaimed,  half  in  real  emotion,  half  in 
drollery, — 


22O  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Oh  dear  !  don't  tell  any  more,  for  pity's  sake  !  I'd  rather  not 
know  it.  I  shall  never  hear  the  wind  and  rain,  at  night  again, 
without  thinking  of  poor  fellows  out  in  the  '  Doldrums,'  under 
water,  holding  on  by  their  heels  to  dolphin-strikers.  Let's  go 
on." 

Say  had  meant  to  be  very  indifferent,  and  to  go  on  with  the 
Gibsons  ;  but,  somehow,  on  clambering  down  from  her  perch,  she 
found  herself  very  near  Gershom,  for  a  minute,  alone. 

Skylie  Purcell  had  sprung  forward,  suiting  her  action  to  her  own 
word  ;  the  Captain  had  waited,  giving  his  hand  to  Joanna,  who  had 
passed  him  also  and  proceeded  ;  and  Say  came  next. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  them  it  was  yourself?"  she  exclaimed, 
with  sudden  impulse,  in  an  undertone,  springing  down  to  his 
side. 

"  Did  you  find  that  out  ?  "  said  he,  quite  naively  disconcerted. 
"  I  hope  nobody  else  did." 

"  Nobody  else  among  them  knows  you  as  well  as  I  do,  Ger — 
Captain  Vorse." 

Now  he  looked  up,  in  simple  surprise.  "  What  do  you  call  me 
that  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  are,  aren't  you  ?  And — the  other  night — I  forgot — 
and  I  felt  quite  ashamed." 

Say  colored  intensely,  as  he  looked  at  her,  for  a  moment,  with 
honest,  uncomprehending  eyes,  and  then  turned  away. 

He  made  no  answer.  He  wondered  what  she  wanted,  now. 
Was  it  a  mere  affectation — a  caprice, — to  see  what  he  would  say  ? 
Or  was  it  a  way  of  setting  him  at  a  distance,  of  reminding  him  that 
she,  herself,  was  now  "Miss  Gair"  ?  Had  it  to  do  with  the  old 
rankling  suggestion  of  "  no  blood-relation,  after  all  "  ?  He  was 
sore  and  sensitive  ;  he  was  ready  to  suspect  her  simplest  word  of 
profound  purpose,  because — she  was  her  mother's  child. 

"  I  was  sure  you  did  not  like  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  con- 
strained to  blunder  into  speech,  the  silence  was  so  terrible. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Gershom,  bluntly.  "I'm 
only  half  a  captain  at  the  best.  I  may  never  stand  on  the  lee  t.f 
a  quarter-deck  again.  And  here,  I'm  at  home,  and  just  what  I 
always  was.  To  those  who  take  me  as  I  am.  I'm  willing  enough 
\Qgtve  titles,  but  I  don't  care  about  claiming  them, — Miss  Gair." 

"  Why  will  you  always  take  me  wrong  ?  "  she  cried  out  in  a  tone 
the  more  intense  because  it  was  kept  under  from  other  hearing. 
And  she  dashed  on  away  from  him,  into  the  thickening  wood,  after 
the  rest.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  caught  herself 
blindly,  in  the  tangle  of  branches,  and  tore  away  her  veil  impa- 
tiently, leaving  a  bit  of  blue  barege  behind,  upon  a  stem, — the  first 
of  her  "  strings  and  streamers." 

They  began  to  go  to  ribbons,  now,  as  Joanna  had  said.  All 
the  remainder  of  the  way  lay  through  the  uncleared  forest,  matted 
with  underbrush,  intricate  with  interlacing  branches,  and  rough 


Up  Boar-Back.  221 

with  abrupt  rocks  and  ridges,  and  wild  obstructions  of  natural 
wreck  and  decay.  John  Blighe  guided  them.  There  was  a  way 
that  a  hunter  could  find,  though  there  seemed  no  path.  Out  to 
the  left,  if  they  had  wandered  away  from  the  right  direction,  they 
would  have  lost  themselves  among  frightful  chasms  and  precipices ; 
and  beyond,  at  the  right,  there  was  wet  ground,  and  more  impas- 
sable jungle.  It  was  no  trifling  feat,  this  climbing  of  Boar-back. 
Ruth  Gibson's  sun-bonnet  had  lost  half  its  pretty  ruffling  from  the 
edge,  and  it  hung  back  in  a  festoon  over  her  neck  behind.  Say's 
veil  was  presently  in  tatters,  and  she  put  the  fragments  in  her 
pocket;  and  then  the  ribbon  of  her  hat  got  a  sudden  pull,  unfasten- 
ing the  bow,  and  floating  it  off  behind  her  like  a  pennant.  Skirts 
\vere  trodden  on,  and  came  out  at  the  gathers  ;  and  there  was 
more  than  one  "  barn-door "  rent.  But  all  this  was  nothing, 
so  long  as  they  got  to  the  top ;  rather,  it  was  one-half  the 
frolic. 

And  in  another  half-hour  they  were  at  the  top  ;  upon  the  highest 
point  of  land  for  fifty  miles  around ;  the  bare  crest  of  the  mountain 
rising  above  the  forest  they  had  passed,  like  the  forehead  of  a  giant 
above  his  bearded  face.  Only  here  and  there,  like  a  stray  lock 
about  his  brow,  a  pine  or  a  birch  flung  out  its  spicy  tassels  or  its 
green  silky  rustle  of  new  leaves. 

Away  back  to  the  north  lay  untrodden  wilds, — townships 
that  had  nothing  but  a  name ; — southward  descended  lower 
undulating  ranges  ; — with  bright  valley  views  between, — and 
away  off  westwardly,  they  caught  blue  glimpses  of  real  monarch- 
peaks. 

It  was  a  glory  to  have  climbed  for;  to  have  lost  gauds  and  trap- 
pings, and  to  have  mutilated  gay  draperies  for. 

There  were  old  stumps  of  huge  pines  scattered  about,  felled,  or 
burned  away,  no  one  knows  when  ;  and  a  long,  fallen  log  crashed 
in  among  a  little  group  of  younger  growth.  They  found  rude, 
comfortable  resting-places  here  and  there,  choosing  for  themselves 
different  outlooks  ;  and  for  a  while  there  was  but  little  talk. 

They  were  tired ;  they  were  also  entranced  with  marvelous 
beauty,  and  beguiled  with  many  thoughts  that  might  not  readily  be 
spoken. 

Fields  and  farms  and  houses,  where  their  homes  were,  looked  so 
little  and  so  lost  away  down  there.  The  rounds  their  lives  ran  in 
seemed  so  petty  in  their  measures.  The  river  came  down — they 
could  trace  it  all  the  way — from  the  far,  northwesterly  gap  through 
the  hills,  and  had  so  many  like  homes  dotted  upon  its  borders,  and 
yet  such  wild,  broad  spaces  between  !  The  haunts  of  the  fox  and 
the  squirrel  looked  so  much  grander  than  the  small  circuits  men 
could  reclaim  and  subdue  unto  their  needs  !  The  world  was  large  ; 
it  was  an  edge  here  like  the  margin  of  the  great  sea  ;  and  one  could 
discern  more  in  the  mighty  off-sweep  ! 

And  the  wonderful  light  that  came  pouring  and  surging  down 


222  The  Gayworthys. 

over  all ;  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good ;  on  the  wilderness  and  on 
the  town  !  How  it  gathered  and  rolled  in  golden  mists  through 
the  gorges,  and  lay  in  purple  radiance  on  the  high,  far  crests,  and 
left  deep,  dark-blue  glooms  of  shadow  in  contrast  on  the  eastward 
slopes  and  underneath  ! 

They  sat  here  and  there,  taking  it  in  according  to  what  each 
severally  had ;  as  the  Scripture  sayeth — and  Life  sayeth,  ever- 
more. 

Joanna  Gayworthy  saw  more,  felt  more,  to-day,  than  she  had 
done  here  eight  years  ago. 

She  drew  herself  apart  a  little  from  the  others,  just  under  the 
eastern  brown  of  the  great  crown ;  sitting  on  the  crisp,  mossy  sod, 
leaning  back  into  a  spicy  cedar-bush,  that  held  her  comfortably, 
with  thick,  sidewise-spreading  arms. 

There  came  a  hush  over  life  and  soul — a  deep  rest ;  a  feeling  of 
good  and  promise  in  all  things — in  all  living. 

She  could  discern  afar  down,  the  little  apex  of  Peak  Hill,  and 
the  dot  of  soft,  light  color  beside  its  base,  that  was  her  home. 
She  knew  just  where  beyond,  out  of  sight,  lay  the  red  buildings  of 
that  other  farm,  close  by.  In  that  little  space  lay  the  whole  scene 
and  story  of  her  life.  Of  hers  and  of  another  that  had  blessed  and 
helped  and  taught  her.  and  lifted  her  up  to  a  higher,  though  un- 
spoken faith,  by  its  calm  steadfastness  and  pure  fidelity ;  that  had 
done  all  this,  though  it  had  not  fulfilled  the  dream  of  a  far-past 
youth.  There  had  been  the  "  comfortable  friendliness  "  ;  ay,  there 
had  been  greatly  more !  And  it  had  all  been  borne  and  lost,  gained 
and  gathered,  enacted  and  beholden,  there, — in  that  hand's-breadth 
of  the  great  landscape, — that  minutest  point  on  God's  vast  earth,  so 
full  of  life,  of  human  experience, — of  grief,  and  loss,  and  joy,  and 
growth ! 

It  was  as  if  she  were  lifted  up  and  separated  from  it,  like  a  soul 
forever  risen  ;  measuring  her  little  past  against  the  wide  sweep  of 
that  eternal  Present  that  holds  all.  And  the  peace — the  infinite 
hope  of  it — overspread  her,  and  made  her  strong  and  glad.  The 
mountain-joy  swelled  within  her.  She  forgot  how  little  distant 
was  young,  gay,  heedless  presence  ;  she  forgot  her  very  self ;  and 
the  spirit  of  the  old  hymn  possessed  her,  and  its  grand,  prophetic 
lines  breathed  themselves  impulsively  from  her  lips  in  the  clear, 
stirring  cadences  of  long-familiar  "  Emmons." 

"  O'er  mountain  tops,  the  mount  of  God 

In  latter  days  shall  rise, 
Above  the  summits  of  the  hills, 

And  draw  the  wondering  eyes." 

With  the  third  line,  a  broad,  rich  tenor  joined. 
From  the  rock  above  her  came  the  voice  ;  but  she  did  not  turn  ; 
only  kept  on,  her  tones  swelling  fuller,  stronger;  growing  glorious 


Up  Boar-Back.  223 

as  with  an  inspiration ;  and  they  sang  the  whole  hymn  through, 
before  either  singer  moved.  Then  Gabriel  Hartshorne  came  down 
and  sat  upon  the  moss  beside  Joanna. 

"  You  struck  it  first,  but  it  had  been  working  in  me,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  had  not  burst  out,  I  should.  This  is  a  gallery  to  sing  it 
in  !" 

Joanna  did  not  answer,  and  for  a  minute  Gabriel  said  nothing 
more.  Old  associations  stirred  in  both.  How  could  it  but  be  so  ? 
You  cannot  do  the  merest  thing,  you  cannot  turn  the  corner  of  a 
street,  you  cannot  hang  your  hat  upon  a  peg  where  you  have  hung 
it  once,  you  cannot,  if  you  are  a  woman,  turn  a  hem  or  fit  a  difficult 
corner  as  you  sew,  or  pin  a  bow  of  ribbon,  but  you  call  up  some 
mood,  some  circumstance  of  the  past,  however  faintly,  however 
unrecognized  at  the  instant,  that  has  been  coincident,  once,  with 
the  self-same  triviality.  Do  you  wish  to  reproduce  another's  by- 
gone mood  ?  There  is  no  surer  art  whereby  to  accomplish  it,  than 
to  reproduce  the  little  outward  circumstance,  if  you  can,  which 
witnessed  it  before ;  which  stamped  itself  twin  with  it,  in  the 
photograph  of  memory,  that  is  always  busy,  that  misses  nothing, 
that  works  ever  with  a  weird  purpose,  by  a  hidden,  wondrous  law. 

"  Do  you  know  how  changed  you  are  in  some  things,  Joanna  ?  " 

There  was  no  need  to  say  since  when ;  the  same  old  time  was 
in  the  thoughts  of  both. 

"  Years  change  most  people,"  she  answered,  with  a  difficulty. 
And  then,  with  an  attempt  at  the  old  lightness,  she  added,  "  I've 
grown  fat  and  old.  I  know  that." 

"  Tisn't  that.  You're  grown  womanly,  but  not  old.  It's  no 
compliment,  you  know  it.  But  I  meant  something  else.  Twelve 
years  ago,  you  were  like  Skylie,  there." 

"  Twelve  years  ago,  I  was — "  a  fool,  was  on  her  lips  to  say,  but 
she  suppressed  it.  It  might  mean  too  much,  too  definitely. 

"  I  remember  what  my  mother  used  to  say  of  you." 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  Joanna  asked  the  question  quickly,  almost 
sharply.  Had  his  mother  disapproved  her,  in  her  flippancy  and 
recklessness  ?  Had  this  had  aught  to  do  with  the  ending  of  that 
old  story,  twelve  years  ago  ? 

"  She  said  you  would  take  such  a  lot  of  sobering  down." 

"  I've  had  it." 

"  I  suppose  we've  all  had  just  what  was  good  for  us." 

He  spoke  it  with  a  simple,  reverent  faith  ;  a  submission  that  had 
long  ago  grown  into  a  large  content.  It  brought  back  Joanna's 
mood  of  a  few  minutes  since,  that  had  been  momentarily  broken. 

"  I  know  you  believe  that.  It  is  easy  to  see,"  she  said,  with  a 
tone  of  feeling.  "  And  so  do  I.  Looking  out  here  made  me 
think. — "  Here  she  paused.  Joanna  Gayworthy  never  had  told  her 
inmost  thoughts  ;  she  could  not  now. 

Gabriel  waited  for  the  space  of  a  minute.  No  more  came 
Then  he  said  gently,  "  We  are  old  friends,  now,  Joanna." 


224  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

"  Yes,  old  friends,"  she  answered,  looking  up  with  a  bright, 
clear,  sudden  smile,  and  a  content  in  her  face  that  was  like  his 
own.  The  words  expressed  the  utmost  of  her  hope ;  the  utmost 
that  had  been  her  hope,  for  years.  It  was  very  dear  to  her,  this 
utterance  of  it,  by  Gabriel ;  very  dear  and  pleasant,  also,  his  call- 
ing her  by  the  old  infrequent  name. 

"  Friends  tell  each  other  thoughts." 

"  Yes,  some  thoughts,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Why  not  these  mountain  thoughts  ?  " 

•'  I  never  can  talk  '  sanctified.'  Mountain  thoughts  are  high 
thoughts.  I  don't  wonder — ."  They  stopped  her  again,  these 
thoughts  that  could  not  be  uttered. 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Gabriel,  taking  up  the  word,  and  going 
on  quietly,  as  if  it  were  not  a  strange,  but  a  certain  and  natural 
thing,  that  their  two  thoughts  should  be  the  same,  "  that  the  Lord 
went  up  into  the  mountains  to  preach,  or  to  pray,  or  to  be  trans- 
figured." 

"  You've  said  it.     Now  say  the  rest  for  me." 

"  It's  all  said,  plain  enough,  before  us.  Down  there, — "and  he 
reached  his  hand  out  toward  the  little  farm-buildings  under  the 
Peak, — "  down  there,  are  our  lives  ;  what  they  have  been,  so  far ; 
shut  in  there.  Then,  there  is  all  the  rest  of  it ;  room  for  so  much  ! " 
The  lifted  hand  swept  round  indicating  the  whole  grand  circuit  of 
hill  and  vale  under  the  wide  horizon,  whereon  new  glories  played, 
in  shifting  lights  and  colors  with  each  passing  cloud,  each  hand's- 
breadth  sinking  of  the  western  sun. 

A  sudden  instinct  of  dread  came  over  Joanna.  A  terror,  all  at 
once,  of  the  breadth  of  possibility. 

"  There  is  too  much  room  !  "  she  cried,  putting  her  hands  over 
her  eyes.  "  I  don't  like  to  look  at  it.  Ihave  just  learned  to  bear 
life  as  it  is  ;  in  just  that  little  spot.  It  mustn't  move  nor  change  !  " 

"  What  may  change,  must.  There  are  things  that  cannot 
change." 

In  the  little  pause  between  Joanna's  words  and  Gabriel's  answer, 
his  thought  had  flashed  to  and  fro,  lighting  up  sharp  points  in  the 
long  history  of  years.  His  mother, — and  the  change  that  took  her 
from  their  round  of  outward  life,  yet  left  the  great  love  that  made 
that  life  all  full  of  her  dear  presence,  even  yet. — The  young  desire, 
— the  hope  that  had  been  wrenched  away,  the  work  that  had  been 
given  him  in  its  stead, — the  years  of  labor  and  of  waiting, — and 
the  unchanging  force  that  held  him  steadfast  through  it  all,  true 
to  his  vow, — true,  no  less  to  the  old,  fervent  passion,  though  it  h»l 
calmed  into  pure,  tender  friendship  that  daily  he  thanked  God  for, 
— all  these  were  touched  by  the  gleam  that  kindled  at  those  words 
of  hers  ;  and  from  the  gathered  feeling  of  it  all,  he  spoke. 

"  There  are  things  that  cannot  change." 

If  Joanna  had  looked  up  into  his  face,  she  would  have  read  it 
in  his  eyes  that  rested  on  her,  with  nothing  less  than  the  old  glow 


Over  East  Spur.  225 

that  had  been  in  them  years  before,  when  he  had  tried  to  tell  his 
love,  and  she  had  put  him  off  with  foolishness.  Friendship,  was 
it  ?  A  friendship,  patient,  holy  ;  but  a  friendship  born  of  fire ; 
such  as  can  be  between  two  souls  only ;  the  souls  of  man  and 
woman. 

She  did  not  look  up.  She  rested,  still,  her  head  upon  one  hand  ; 
her  face  turned  from  the  fair  picture  that  had  moved  her  so  to  hope 
and  fear ;  the  other  hand  she  held  out. 

"  Whatever  happens,  Gabriel,  we  are  old  friends,  in  all  ?  "  She 
questioned  with  an  earnestness,  and  eagerness, — as  if  she  dreaded 
something,  she  knew  not  what,  and  clung  to  him. 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  a  strong  grasp  that  answered 
her. 

"  Old  friends.     Dear  friends,  Joanna." 

A  loud  call  interrupted  them.     A  call  for  help. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

OVER  EAST  SPUR. 

DOWN  to  the  northward  the  great  mountain  mass  precipitated 
its  descent,  in  steep  banks  and  sheer  escarpments,  toward  a  wild 
ravine.  They  were  like  terraces  ;  a  bank, — a  precipice, — a  flat 
of  sward,  or  a  table-rock  ;  another  cliff, — another  landing ;  each 
successive  pitch  a  deeper  fall ;  with  shelving  ridges  that  wound 
and  sloped,  eastward  and  westward,  merging  each  ledge  with  the 
next,  all  down  the  giant  shoulders  of  the  hill. 

From  under  the  first  cliff,  the  cry  came.  No  cry  of  pain  or  even 
of  fear.  Only  a  call.  Joanna's  name,  in  Say's  voice. 

A  few  rods  over  on  the  westward  slope,  the  greater  number  of 

the  young  party  had   settled    themselves    in    closely   neighboring 

groups.     Say  had  been  with  them,  and  Joanna  had  supposed  her 

with  them  still.     They,  perhaps,  when  she  had  risen  and  gone 

;,away,  some  fifteen  minutes  since,  had  thought  her  with  Joanna. 

There  had  been  some  merry,  disputing  claim  of  best  places  and 
outlooks. 

"  It  would  be  just  perfect,  here,"  cried  Skylie,  out  from  a  nook 
of  pines.  "  only  that  impertinent  birch  tree  has  grown  up  in  the 
way.  There's  nothing  else  between  me  and  Red-Cap." 

"  It's  the  only  thing  that  breaks  the  whole  western  view,"  said 
Ruth  Gibson.  "  I've  been  wishing  it  away  ever  since  I  got  here." 

"  Hasn't  anybody  got  a  hatchet  in  his  pocket  ?  "  asked  Skylie, 
impatiently. 

"  I've  got  a  jack-knife,"  said  Gershom  Vorse,  quietly. 

"Just  whittle  me  down  that  tree,  then,  please." 


226  The  Gayworthys. 

The  sailor,  used  to  "short  orders,"  went  aloft,  without  ado.  In 
an  instant,  he  was  in  the  top  of  the  swaying  birch  ;  a  tree  of  twenty- 
five  feet  height,  perhaps,  with  a  girth  of  more  than  two  hands 
span. 

He  began  to  whittle  down. 

The  feathery  crown  of  the  upper  twigs  fell,  rustling,  to  the  ground. 
Then  he  lowered  himself  a  little,  and  struck  in  a  new  place.  A 
true  branch  was  severed  and  crashed  lightly  among  the  others, 
underneath.  Dropping  a  little,  hands  and  feet,  he  worked  away. 
Two,  three,  four  limbs,  each  of  successive  larger  bole,  succumbed 
in  turn. 

It  grew  exciting.  Would  he  really  whittle  down  the  tree  ?  The 
party  watched,  and  laughed,  and  cried  out  in  applause. 

Say  got  up,  and  walked  away. 

Why  should  Skylie  Purcell  order  him  up  and  down  so  ?  Why 
should  he  obey  ? 

Had  they  been  brother  and  sister,  with  none  nearer,  in  old 
childish  years  ?  Had  he  scolded  and  comforted,  and  laughed  at 
and  cheered  her,  away  back  in  that  time  of  the  dear  summer  jour- 
neys and  stays  in  Hilbury  ?  Had  she  been  afraid  of  his  censure, 
and  honored  his  honest  bluntness,  and  brought  all  questions  in- 
stinctively, to  the  secret  test  of  what  Gershom  would  say — hovr 
he  would  judge?  Had  she  waited  these  five  years  for  her  brother 
to  come  back  to  her ;  longing  for  him  with  a  great,  lonely,  child- 
ish longing,  all  the  time  ?  Having  no  other  love  to  fill  her  want, 
like  the  love  she  had  missed  when  her  old  playfellow  suddenly 
went  forth  into  manhood  and  the  world,  leaving  her  "  to  be  a  little 
girl  ever  so  many  years  longer  ?  " 

What  claim  had  Skylie  Purcell,  like  this  lifelong  claim  of  hers  ? 

Why  should  Gershom  turn  from  her,  his  little  Say,  scorning  her 
least  word  of  sympathy  and  pride,  and  let  this  strange  girl  play 
her  freaks  with  him  ? 

She  did  not  understand  her  own  jealousy,  that  was  growing 
sharper  than  a  sister's.  She  only  could  not  bear  it,  and  she  turned 
away. 

She  walked  up  the  mountain  crest ;  where  it  heaved  itself  into 
that  slow,  clumsy  outline  whence  it  had  its  name ;  beyond  which, 
northward,  plunged  the  steeps,  one  behind  another  into  the  wil- 
derness. She  went  down  a  little,  over  the  topmost  height,  where 
the  first  rapid  slope  tended  downward,  but  had  not  yet  become 
precipitous.  She  descended  till  the  mountain  summit  hid  her  from 
sight ;  till  she  was  all  alone ;  till  she  paused  at  the  very  brink  of 
the  perpendicular  declivity,  where  another  step  would  be  twenty 
feet  straight  down  a  face  of  granite. 

She  sat  there  on  the  verge  ;  her  feet  over  the  cliff,  resting  on  a 
projection  of  the  stone  below.  She  looked  into  the  top  of  a  tall, 
strong  birch  that  grew  upon  the  level  underneath,  and  tossed  its 
crown,  quivering  and  whispering  with  every  breath,  close  at  her 


Over  East  Spur.  227 

side.  All  alone,  rooted  in  the  rocks  ;  a  hard  stern  living  ;  reach- 
ing up  toward  the  far,  soft  blue,  and  trembling  ever,  with  its  sen- 
sitive pulsations,  against  the  granite.  There  was  human  life  like 
this ;  she  had  a  dread  that  she  must  live  it.  She  sat  there  think- 
ing, listening,  till  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes ;  till  the  tree-whis- 
pers sounded  like  a  syllabled  sympathy  ;  till,  impelled  with  a  tender 
pitifulness  that  was  secretly  for  her  own  sadness,  she  reached  out 
her  hands  caressingly  to  the  green  swaying  boughs,  that  came  lift- 
ing and  dropping  against  her  knees. 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  name,  from  above.     She  was  missed. 

The  whittling  down  of  the  tree  had  been  accomplished.  There 
stood,  now,  only  a  bare,  jagged  pole,  making  a  line  against  the 
western  sky  and  the  breast  of  Red-Cap  purpling  in  shadow,  to 
show  where  a  tree  had  been,  shutting  out  miles  of  hill  and  heaven. 

There  had  been  a  shout  of  triumph ;  Say  had  not  heeded  ;  she 
had  only  folded  more  tenderly  the  young  leaves  between  her 
palms,  and  looked  through  eyes  suddenly  dimmer  with  that  self- 
pity,  over  upon  the  black  surge  of  the  wilderness. 

Then  they,  above,  turning  one  to  another,  had  found  that  she 
was  gone, — gone  quite  away,  and  out  of  sight ;  and  somebody  had 
called  her  by  her  name. 

It  startled  her.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  go  back,  just  yet,  or  to 
be  found  ;  she  had  an  impulse  to  spring  up  and  hide  herself  away 
again.  Still  holding  the  birch  in  her  right  hand,  she  placed  her 
left  beside  her  on  the  rock  to  raise  herself  again  upon  it. 

A  strange  thing  happened.  She  threw  her  weight,  for  an  in- 
stant, inadvertently,  upon  her  right  foot,  resting  as  it  did  upon  a 
shelf  below.  The  shelf, — a  thin  shard  of  stone  held  edgewise  in 
a  crevice, — crumbled  from  its  loose  lodgment,  and  gave  way.  With 
the  quick  instinct  of  terror,  she  threw  up,  also,  her  other  hand, 
clutching  the  birch-bole  desperately  with  both.  The  lithe  tree 
best  with  her  ;  she  felt  in  a  flash  how  it  would  be  ;  she  had  "  swung 
birches "  before,  many  a  time  in  sport ,  she  was  tossed  down 
fifteen  feet,  and  dropped.  Dropped  upon  the  thick  moss  and  forest 
mould  that  bedded  the  broad  platform  below.  She  was  safe ;  but 
the  bough  sprang  back  again,  and  she  was  left  there.  There  was 
no  way  of  reascending. 

She  lay  where  she  had  fallen  a  minute,  trembling ;  she  had  not 
gotten  over  the  convulsion  of  her  momentary  horror.  Then  she 
looked  around,  and  the  fact  of  her  situation  revealed  itself. 

Right  and  left  were  craggy  shelving  rocks ;  above,  the  sheer 
ascent  from  whose  height  she  had  come  down,  as  by  a  miracle. 
The  only  foothold,  either  way,  was  downward  still.  One  might, 
if  one  dared,  pass  out  there,  to  the  east,  upon  the  narrow  ledge 
to  which  this  platform  dwindled,  where  the  upper  cliff  crowded  out 
upon  it ;  but  whither  ?  She  was  afraid,  astonished.  She  was  per- 
plexed, and  she  was  ashamed.  Astonished  and  affrightened  at 
this  position  in  which,  so  strangely  in  a  moment,  she  nad  placed 


228  The  Gay  wort  Iiys. 

herself.  Ashamed  to  cry  out  and  make  known  how  she  had  come 
there. 

Meanwhile,  the  call  for  her  had  not  been  immediately  repeated. 
She  heard  faintly  a  laugh,  They  were  at  some  new  jest. 

She  moved  along  to  the  eastward  side  of  the  hill,  around  a  huge 
abutment  of  the  granite,  leaving  the  sounds  behind  and  coming 
close  under  the  point  where  she  knew  Joanna  had  been.  Then 
she  shouted  in  a  clear,  confident,  yet  appealing  tone,  her  name. 
She  had  thought  for  that.  If  her  cry  reached  them  from  this 
strange  spot  with  an  accent  of  distress  or  of  alarm,  they  would  be 
suddenly  and  terribly  frightened  for  her.  She  wished  to  save 
them  this.  Above  all,  she  wished  if  possible  to  avert  a  general 
commotion. 

Gabriel  and  Joanna  hastened  up  over  the  ridge.  They  came 
down  cautiously  to  the  verge  of  the  cliff  upon  that  side,  and  be- 
held below,  sitting  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  half  turned  away  from 
them,  awaiting  some  answer  to  her  call,  the  "  child,"  Sarah  Gair. 

"Say!  How  on  earth  did  you  ever  get  there?"  cried  Joanna, 
in  dismay. 

"Swung  down  on  a  birch,  auntie!"  she  cried  back,  looking 
up  half  laughing ;  but  her  face  was  pale. 

"  What  nonsense,  child  !     On  purpose  ?     Don't  tell  me  that !  " 

"  No  ;  my  foot  slipped,  and  I  tumbled  into  it.  How  shall  I  get 
up  again  ?  " 

"That's  the  thing!"  said  Joanna,  turning  to  Gabriel  with  the 
question  in  her  face. 

"  It's  a  mile  around,  by  any  safe  path,"  said  Gabriel.  "  Where's 
the  birch  ?  " 

"Around  there,  by  the  very  top.  Down  behind  the  old  log. 
But  it  mightn't  bear  again,"  she  cried  with  a  sudden  terror,  as 
she  saw  them  turn  and  walk  away  upward,  rapidly,  toward  the 
crest. 

Now  they  would  all  come.  Now,  they  would  all  shout,  and 
wonder,  and  ask  questions.  Now,  Skylie  would  laugh,  and  Ger- 
shom, — well,  she  would  stay  here,  where  she  was.  So  she  sat 
down  on  her  stone  again. 

Up  there,  above,  they  found  the  birch,  and  the  whole  party  got 
together  before  anybody  could  make  a  mind  up  what  to  do. 

The  breeze  had  died  away  ;  there  was  no  swaying  of  the  bough, 
now,  toward  the  cliff;  and  the  strain  that  had  bent  the  slender 
pole  down  nearly  double,  had  not  left  it  quite  erect  as  it  had  been 
before.  It  swerved  a  little,  outward  from  the  rock. 

Gabriel  moved  on  a  few  paces,  reconnoitering  the  crags  upon 
the  left ;  if  haply  any  descent  there  might  be  possible. 

John  Blighe  looked  eager,  nervous  ;  measuring  the  height, — 
scanning  the  birch  with  doubtful,  impatient  eyes.  Fifty  pounds 
difference  in  weight  might  make  a  different  jump  of  it. 

"  I  know  the  way,"  he  said.     "  Down  under  the  Rump,  over  the 


Over  East  Spur.  229 

East  Spur  by  the  old  logging  road.  But  that," — glancing  into  the 
crown  of  the  light  tree  that  trembled  just  beyond  their  reach, — 
"  why,  it's  a  thing  for  a  bird  to  do  !  " 

"  Or  a  girl,  or  a  very  brave,  quick-witted  man,"  said  Skylie  Pur- 
cell,  with  a  sharp  little  sarcasm  in  her  tone. 

For  as  they  spoke  the  thing  was  done. 

The  sailor,  Gershom  Vorse,  used  to  holding  on  with  his  eyelids, 
lowered  himself  suddenly  down  the  face  of  the  cliff,  grasping  its 
rough  edge  with  his  hands,  and  finding  a  seam  to  brace  one  foot 
in,  threw  out  the  other,  catching  so,  and  bringing  toward  him  the 
yielding  stem,  whereon  he  flung  himself  with  all  his  limbs,  and 
clung  as  only  a  sailor  could.  Down  it  danced  with  him  through 
the  air,  and  dropped  him  safely.  John  Blighe  looked  vacant,  as 
if  somebody  had  plucked  a  purpose  from  him  before  he  quite  knew 
what  it  was,  that  took  the  breath  out  with  it,  and  left  him  gasping. 

Gershom  looked  up  and  spoke  quietly,  as  if  nothing  out  of  the 
premeditated  course  had  happened. 

"  We  shall  come  out  on  East  Spur  in  less  than  a  half  an  hour. 
You  can  see  us  if  you  wait,  and  after  that  it's  straight  sailing. 
You  need  have  no  concern." 

"  You'll  go  down  by  the  logging  road,  then  ?  "  said  Gabriel. 

"  Yes,  that  is  best ;  it's  a  bad  way  round  to  the  south  side  again, 
and  you'd  ought  to  be  gone  long  before  we  could  meet  you.  Don't 
wait  longer  than  just  to  see  us  safe  out  on  the  Spur." 

"Where  will  they  come  out  at  last?"  asked  Joanna  of  John 
Blighe. 

"  Depends  on  whether  he  really  knows  the  way,"  replied  that 
gentleman,  in  a  somewhat  sulky  tone.  "  If  he  has  good  luck,  and 
they  don't  break  their  necks,  they'll  strike  the  Deepwater  road 
somewhere  over  behind  Hoogs's." 

"  Take  Say  home  with  you  to  Wealthy's,"  called  Joanna  to 
Gershom. 

He  nodded  and  moved  on  along  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  to  find  her. 
He  had  known  just  what  would  be  to  be  done  before  a  word  had 
been  said.  He  had  scaled  these  ledges  as  a  boy,  years  ago ;  and 
the  old  logging  road  down  East  Spur  was  no  less  familiar  to  him 
than  to  John  Blighe.  He  knew  that  Say  could  never  walk  round 
the  great  mountain  foot,  by  the  winding  Deepwater  road  to  the 
point  whence  the  party  had  commenced  their  climb  that  afternoon  ; 
it  would  be  quite  enough  for  her  if  she  could  accomplish  the  long, 
hard  scrambling  descent  of  East  Spur ;  and  if  anybody  were  to 
drive  round  to  meet  them,  there  was  no  certain  point  within  half  a 
mile,  at  best,  at  which  to  expect  them  ;  for  the  logging  road  ended 
abruptly  far  away  in  rough  pastures,  where  they  must  choose  a 
track  out  as  best  they  could  to  a  traveled  way.  A  short  and 
smooth  cut  over  a  few  cleared  fields  again,  after  crossing  the  Deep- 
water  road  would  take  them  to  the  dairy  farm. 

"  We'll  go  round  there,  and  say  they're  coming,"  said  Skylie 


230  The  Gay  wort  hys. 

Purcell  to  Joanna,  "  or,  between  you,  they  might  be  out  all  night, 
and  nobody  the  wiser." 

"  I'm  going  there  myself,"  said  Joanna,  quietly.  "  I'll  go  with 
you,  if  you'll  make  room,  since  it's  on  your  way." 

"  I  can  take  you  round,"  said  Gabriel. 

"  Thank  you  ;  but  it  will  be  late,  and  Rebecca  will  be  getting 
anxious.  I'd  rather  you'd  go  home  and  explain  to  her,  if  you'll  be 
so  kind." 

Gabriel  would  be  kind.  There  were  no  jealousies  and  miscon- 
structions of  young,  hasty  spirits  between  these  two,  now.  They 
were  old,  sure  friends.  They  would  do  each  other  best  service, 
always,  whether  it  were  momentary  pleasure,  or  no.  Gabriel 
would  go  home  and  tell  Rebecca,  and  Joanna  and  Say  would  be 
kept  at  the  dairy  farm  till  morning. 

Gershom  knew  how  it  would  be.  Was  there  a  little  thrill  of 
joy  for  him  in  it,  spite  of  his  stern  will  not  to  be  pleased, — to  let 
Say  alone,  and  not  to  care  for  her — Jane  Gair's  child  ?  "  He  did 
not  ask  himself  what  shade  of  other  impulse  mingled  with  his  in- 
stinctive sailor  gallantry  and  readiness  when  there  was  a  thing  to 
be  done  that  called  for  cool  nerve  and  trained  muscle  ;  what  eager- 
ness it  was  that  he  felt,  as  he  sprang  past  John  Blighe,  and  cast 
himself  over  the  cliff,  clinging  by  his  finger-tips.  Ah,  the  honest- 
est  of  us  have  the  little  thoughts  in  the  fine  soul-type,  that  we  put 
by  and  overlay  with  a  sort  we  are  more  willing  to  look  at. 

"  He  should  have  Say  all  to  himself,  this  little  while,  without 
being  able  to  help  it." 

Gershom  Vorse  hardly  knew  that  he  thought  this ;  yet  some 
secret,  detected  content  made  him  suddenly  angry  with  himself, 
as  he  strode  on,  around  the  crag,  and  came  upon  her,  sitting  there, 
turned  away,  half  ashamed,  and  waiting.  It  threw  him  back  into 
his  reserve  again. 

Say  thought  it  was  Gabriel  coming.  Round  there,  behind  the 
beetling  rock,  the  sounds  of  their  voices  had  come  to  her  with  a 
•confused  perception  of  direction.  She  caught  some  of  their  words  ; 
she  heard  Gabriel  speak,  and  Gershom ;  she  heard  them  all  talk 
together,  scarcely  distinguishing  who  might  be  above,  and  who 
below  ;  and  then  came  the  man's  step,  striding  and  springing,  and 
she  knew  somebody  had  come  to  take  care  of  her.  When  he  came 
close,  she  turned  round.  She  started  up. 

"  You  ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Hartshorne."  After  a  little  pause, — 
"  It  was  very  silly  and  careless  of  me.  I  don't  know  how  I  did  it. 
And  you  are  very  kind  to  come  for  me." 

All  her  little  resentment  was  gone.  She  was  prompt  to  be  grate- 
ful, poor  child.  A  small  kindness  touched  her,  always.  Even  in 
what  seemed  her  pleasant  life,  she  had  been  used  to  snubs,  and 
ready  consideration  took  her  by  surprise.  To  be  of  consequence, 


Over  East  Spur.  231 

— to  be  attended  to, — this  was  what  she  had  not  learned  to  take 
for  granted  even  in  Hilbury.  Her  voice  trembled,  even,  as  she 
thanked  him  so. 

It  seemed  to  him  beyond  the  occasion.  There  was  nothing  to 
make  a  fuss  about. 

"  You  must  be  got  home  somehow,  of  course."  He  was  hard 
and  matter-of-fact  again.  She  crushed  her  gratitude  back,  and 
got  up  and  wrapped  her  shawl  about  her,  and  was  ready  to  move 
on. 

The  wind,  that  had  been  southerly  all  the  early  day,  had  come 
round  to  the  eastward  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  the  air,  cool  always 
on  these  heights,  was  keen  upon  this  shaded  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. Say  had  grown  chilly  as  she  had  sat  there  on  the  cliff  behind 
the  crest,  out  of  the  sunshine  ;  she  felt  the  cold  afresh  now,  com- 
ing out  of  the  shelter  of  the  rock  and  facing  the  breeze,  as  she  fol- 
lowed Gershom  on  along  the  ledge,  where  it  narrowed  rapidly  to 
a  perilous  pass. 

He  turned  to  take  her  hand,  and  help  her  round  a  point  of  rocks 
where  the  foothold  was  smallest.  Beyond,  it  broadened  again  to 
safer  space.  Here  he  stopped  and  began  to  pull  off  the  loose, 
rough  jacket  that  he  wore  above  his  sailor  shirt. 

"  You  are  cold,"  said  he.     "You'd  better  put  this  on." 

The  words  and  the  act  were  kind  ;  but  the  tone  was  matter-of- 
fact  as  ever. 

"  I  can  freeze  as  well  as  you,"  she  said,  shortly  ;  and  made  as 
if  she  would  pass  him  to  go  forward.  He,  on  his  part,  replied 
nothing  to  that,  but  turned  and  resumed  his  leading  of  the  way. 

So  they  went  on,  in  their  moods,  these  two  strange,  young  crea- 
tures, each  holding  such  quick,  magnetic  power  over  the  other, 
working  as  yet,  it  seemed,  only  for  repulsion. 

It  was  not  in  Say's  nature  to  be  haughty ;  to  cast  back  scorn 
for  scorn  :  she  could  flame  out  for  an  instant,  with  a  woman's 
proud  resentment,  but  a  word  would  bring  her  back  again  to  the 
sweetness  of  a  child.  And  Gershom  was  not  precisely  scornful, 
either  ;  he  was  only  cold  and  rational ;  doing  things  for  a  reason  ; 
by  no  means  for  a  sentiment.  So  she  thought  of  him  ;  so  he  too, 
thought,  at  present,  of  himself. 

There  was  a  wild  delight  of  daring  in  the  treading  of  this  path 
they  had  to  follow.  To  Gershom  not  so  much,  perhaps ;  he  had 
been  used  to  the  hills  and  ledges  from  a  child  ;  to  dizzy  spars  and 
slender  ropes  for  years  of  hazardous  life.  But  Say's  cheek  tingled 
and  her  eye  glowed  as,  with  her  shawl  tied  tightly  around  her 
waist,  and  her  dress  knotted  up  behind,  away  from  her  feet,  in  a 
great,  careless  knob,  she  sprung  like  a  bird,  from  perch  to  perch 
along  the  jagged  and  interrupted  way.  The  little  feet  seemed 
made  for  dainty  poising  on  the  narrow  shelves,  and  she  held  her- 
self with  sure  and  delicate  balance,  as  if  it  were  but  a  dance,  on 
airy  heights  where  an  instant's  uncertainty  or  giddiness  might 


232  The  Gayworthys. 

have  been  her  death.  She  never  thought  of  being  afraid.  Ger- 
shom  could  not  help  in  his  heart,  a  wondering  admiration  of  the 
bright,  brave  young  thing.  He  watched  carefully  for  her  safety. 
He  reached  a  ready  hand  whenever  it  was  needed  for  an  instant. 
He  was  cool  and  heedful ;  it  was  his  business  to  see  her  safe. 
But  he  did  it  as  a  business  ;  he  said  never  a  word  for  a  long  while 
after  that  rejected  offer  of  the  jacket ;  he  let  no  gleam  come  into 
his  face  of  admiring  surprise  as  she  sped  lightly  on,  never  paus- 
ing or  daunted,  following  with  clean  aplomb,  wherever  he  himself 
could  go. 

Without  him,  she  might  hardly  have  been  nerved  to  such  in- 
trepidity ;  it  is  hard  to  tell  what  goes  to  make  a  mood  ;  she  felt 
safe  having  him ;  she  felt  proud,  he  looking  on  ;  excited  to  do  her 
best ;  to  be  as  cool  as  he ;  goaded  by  his  indifference  to  something 
that  was  no  longer  anger,  but  had  a  high  touch, — was  a  little 
superb.  Sarah  Gair  had  never  asserted  herself  so  completely  in 
his  presence  ;  she  had  never  been  so  near  seizing  supremacy. 

They  came  down  at  last,  safely,  to  the  second  landing.  They 
glanced  back,  upward  to  the  way  they  had  threaded.  It  looked 
almost  like  bare  cliff  again  ;  seen  from  hence,  one  could  hardly 
fancy  there  could  be  any  path.  The  great  mountain  pile  towered 
high  above  them,  now  ;  below  a  yet  more  enormous  mass  stretched 
itself  out  and  clothed  itself  with  forest.  It  was  utter  solitude. 
Dense  shadow  heaped  itself,  like  a  thing  to  be  felt ;  cold,  black 
glooms  lay  impenetrable  about  them.  The  whole  great  body  of 
the  mighty  hill  was  between  them  and  the  presence  of  their 
friends ;  no  voice  could  reach  them  ;  no  ear  could  catch  a  cry. 
They  were  here  together ;  they  could  only  help  each  other. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  people  stand  so.  When  they 
look  back  on  the  path — broken  and  perilous — that  they  have 
traversed ;  coldly,  perhaps,  and  in  estrangement,  yet  together ; 
when  they  can  no  longer  return;  when  they  can  make  no  long 
pause ;  when  they  must  help  and  cheer  each  other,  or  nothing 
human  will.  In  such  moments  hearts  come  closer. 

At  first  these  seemed  far  enough. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  " 

"  No." 

This  was  all  they  said,  after  the  peril  and  the  long  silence. 
They  stood  a  little  apart,  and  the  silence  of  the  wilderness,  broken 
only  by  this  pebble  of  sound,  closed  up  again  around  them.  But 
the  secret  influence  of  the  place  was  working.  The  solitude  was 
bringing  them  nearer  in  spirit. 

There  came  a  crash  in  the  woods,  just  down  below  them.  Some 
forest  animal,  or  a  broken  branch.  Say  started,  and  her  move- 
ment brought  her  closer  to  Gershom's  side. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered,  a  little  fearfully. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Gershom,  "  but  a  fox  perhaps,  or  a  falling 
limb." 


Over  East  Spur.  233 

Say  laughed.  "  I  think  it  is  the  bears,  coming  to  eat  up  the 
naughty  children.  Don't  be  cross,  Gershom." 

She  said  it  with  the  very  old  accent  of  their  childish  days,  when 
she  had  used  to  say  it  so  often. 

"  I'm  not  cross,  Say.  Don't  be  silly."  His  old  reply, — spoken 
very  kindly  now,  for  the  old  days  came  back,  and  the  secret  pres- 
ent charm  had  wrought. 

"  We  had  better  go  on." 

Say  felt  the  sound  quiver  as  it  came  to  her  lips,  saying  but  these 
simple,  common-sensible  words,  with  the  thrill  that  only  a  return- 
ing kindness  in  Gershie  had  ever  given  her ! 

Both  felt  it  would  not  do  to  linger.  Say  was  warm  with  exer- 
cise, and  she  must  not  stay  here  to  be  chilled.  They  must  wait 
for  no  reaction  of  body  or  of  spirit. 

So  they  went  on,  and  the  path  narrowed  again.  Under  the 
overhanging  rock,  they  passed  around,  still  working  to  the  east- 
ward and  southward  ;  making  through  the  rock  and  tangle,  for  the 
great  outlying  shoulder  of  East  Spur. 

All  at  once  Gershom  paused,  appalled.  Had  he  missed  his 
way,  that  he  had  felt  so  sure  of  ?  Had  he  taken  some  delusive 
turn,  and  followed  a  wrong  shelving,  that  would  end  in  middle 
air,  against  a  hopeless  face  of  rock  ?  Or  had  there  been  a  break, 
or  fall,  here,  since  he  trod  the  path  before  ? 

They  had  come  suddenly  to  a  bend  where  they  could  see  but  a 
few  feet  in  advance  ;  those  few  feet  a  mere  lintel  against  a  preci- 
pice that  reached  itself  up  and  forward,  at  a  pitch  that  would  not 
let  them  stand  upright. 

They  might,  though  at  great  peril,  crawl  around ;  he  had  come 
to  feel  great  faith  in  Say,  by  this  time ;  but  what  lay  beyond  ?  If 
there  should  be  no  way  to  proceed,  might  they  be  able  to  turn  and 
come  back  ? 

It  was  for  him  to  go  and  see. 

"  Stay  here,  Say,"  he  said  ;  and  there  was  suddenly  something 
almost  tender  in  his  tone. 

Was  he  frightened  for  her  ?  Had  anything  gone  wrong  ?  She 
hardly  cared  at  that  moment,  since  he  could  be  gentle  once  more. 

It  was  only  when  she  saw  him  stoop  to  hands  and  feet,  and  pass, 
carefully  creeping,  beyond  her  sight  upon  the  dizzy  shelf  around 
the  bend,  that  the  thought  smote  her  of  why  he  did  it ;  of  what 
might  happen  to  him,  should  the  way  prove  a  false  leading.  She 
saw  it,  suddenly,  now  ;  that  he  had  left  her  here  to  test  a  dreadful 
danger  alone. 

She  crouched  down  upon  the  lichened  rock  whereon  she  stood, 
covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands  ;  an  agony  of  listening  in  her 
ears  ;  waiting  for  a  possible  sound  of  horror.  She  refrained  from 
the  call  of  expostulation  that  had  risen  to  her  lips  ;  she  must  not 
shake,  by  a  breath,  his  concentration  of  faculty  and  purpose  ;  she 
must  wait,  and  let  him  alone. 


234  The  Gayworthys. 

Two — three — minutes  :  how  many  years  did  they  seem  like  ? 

There  came  a  small  sound, — and  then  the  stillness  again.  A 
sound  of  a  stone,  falling,  rolling,  losing  itself,  she  could  not  tell 
whether  in  distance  or  against  some  resting-place. 

The  instant's  silence  after  that  was  ghastly. 

She  had  raised  her  head  ;  she  was  gazing  at  the  farthest  angle 
behind  which  he  had  disappeared.  She  scarcely  breathed ;  her 
vision  was  almost  paralyzed  by  its  own  intentness ;  her  whole 
being  was  gathered  to  a  point,  in  fear  and  expectation  ;  then  she 
saw  an  arm  reached  into  sight, — a  hand  planted — fingers  outward 
— upon  the  rocky  edge  ;  a  body  lifted,  so,  sidewise,  the  feet  hanging 
down  over  the  abyss,  and  set,  again,  a  little  nearer.  So  he  came 
back  over  a  way  where  turning  had  been  impossible. 

"We  must  go  down  lower.  Say  ;  half-way  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ravine;  and  cross  over,  so,  to  East  Spur."  He  said  it,  coming  to 
her  side  in  safety. 

Her  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  wide  distended  eyes,  speechless.  The  reaction  could  not 
come  at  once.  Her  senses  held  themselves  at  the  climax  of  their 
strain. 

He  stooped  down  and  took  her  by  both  hands. 

"Say!  This  won't  do!  What  is  the  matter?"  Then  he  put 
his  arm  about  her  and  lifted  her  up. 

It  was  well  he  had  been  cold  and  mechanical  before.  The  dif- 
ference now — the  gentle  words,  the  helpful  touch — did  what  the 
sudden  sight  of  his  safety,  not  making  itself  believed  in  instantly, 
had  failed  to  do.  The  tension  of  nerve  and  spirit  gave  way ;  she 
burst  into  uncontrollable  tears. 

"  There  will  be  nothing  more  like  this,  Say ;  and  you  must  keep 
your  courage  up  ;  you  have  been  very  brave." 

"  I'm  not  frightened  ;  it  isn't  that,"  she  gasped  out,  checking  her 
sobs,  and  looking  up  at  him  again,  with  a  little  nervous  attempt  at 
smiling,  "  What  did  you  come  to,  out  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  ?  " 

"  Just  that.  And  when  I  found  there  was  nothing, — why,  of 
course,  I  came  back  again." 

"  It  was  horrible, — waiting  !  I  didn't  understand,  till  after  you 
were  gone." 

There  could  be  no  sham  in  this.  Gershom  knew  that  she  had 
borne  a  torture  of  terror  forlhim. 

"Can  you  come  on  now?"  He  kept  her  hand  in  his  to  lea<( 
her  down.  The  way  was  steep,  but  it  was  a  side-cliff,  where  they 
could  scramble  from  rock  to  rock,  together.  There  were  no  more 
narrow  passes.  From  his  perilous  outlook,  a  moment  since,  he 
had  seen  this,  which  they  could  not  see  from  hence,  and  that  the 
descent  was  possible. 

Say  gathered  her  forces  together,  once  more.    She  would  not  be 


Over  East  Spur.  235 

a  perplexity  or  a  burden.  She  must  go  on  with  him,  and  she 
would  go  on  bravely.  The  elastic  joy  was  over ;  but  she  could  be 
strong ;  she  could  persevere.  She  could  do  anything  with  his 
hand  holding  her,  no  longer  perforce,  but  with  a  kind  solicitude. 

There  were  long  spaces  for  them  to  drop  down,  descending  this 
Tough  Titanic  staircase ;  hands  and  feet  were  both  needed,  often  ; 
there  were  leaps,  not  insignificant,  over  rifts  and  chasms  ;  they 
had  got  into  the  very  heart  of  one  of  nature's  wild  and  secret 
places.  There  was  no  path;  the  semblance  of  one  that  they 
might  have  followed,  lay  below ;  they  should  have  descended  to 
it  from  a  point  far  back ;  but  it  was  better  to  keep  on  this  way, 
now.  Half-way  down  into  the  ravine,  as  Gershom  had  said,  they 
found  it ;  it  took  them  upon  a  new  platform,  or  landing,  of  table- 
rock,  that  jutted  from  the  overhanging  cliff.  A  little  trickle  of 
water  came  down,  through  a  cranny  in  the  bare  face  of  it,  a  shorter 
way,  to  meet  them ;  it  dropped  upon  the  granite  floor,  and  rolled 
away  over  its  edge  again,  a  thread  of  waterfall  that  went  to  help 
make  up  the  brook  winding  itself  in  the  glen  below. 

Gershom  had  his  tin  cup  still  in  his  jacket  pocket.  A  little 
flat  bit  of  a  dipper,  that  would  hold,  maybe,  two  wineglass-fulls. 
He  drew  it  out  and  held  it  to  catch  the  drops.  He  gave  them  to 
Say  to  drink.  They  made  her  stronger.  She  looked  up  when 
she  had  swallowed  them,  and  her  eye  searched  the  far-up,  impend- 
ing outline  of  the  crag.  Away  up  under  its  very  top,  was  where 
Gershom  had  gone,  clinging,  till  he  came  where  there  was — noth- 
ing !  She  could  not  trace  from  here,  more  than  a  faint  line  to 
show  her  where  the  narrow  ledge  had  wound.  If  they  had  both 
ventured  !  She  said  nothing,  but  there  came  a  shudder  over  her, 
and  she  turned  away. 

"  We  must  go  on,"  said  Gershom.  "They  will  be  watching  to 
see  us  safe  out  on  the  Spur ;  and  the  sun  is  lowering." 

It  was  only  to  climb,  now.  Rough  work ;  and  the  dress  had 
new  knots  in  it  before  long,  where  the  strings  and  streamers  had 
grown  troublesome,  and  must  be  gathered  up.  The  trim,  dainty 
little  figure  was  oddly  metamorphosed.  But  Gershom  liked  her 
better  so,  somehow,  perverse  fellow,  than  he  had  done  in  the  deli- 
cate array  of  purple-pansied  muslin  and  lace  frills  and  floating 
ribbon.  She  was  no  "  thing  for  a  shop-window,"  now,  assuredly. 

They  stood  out  on  the  bare,  high  shoulder-top  of  East  Spur,  at 
last ;  and  all  this  had  been  done  in  about  five  and  thirty  minutes. 
Down  a  little  upon  their  way  over  the  south  slope,  the  rest  of  the 
party  had  paused  and  turned  aside,  and  were  waiting  upon  an 
opposite  height  that  brought  them  marvelously  near,  by  an  air  line, 
the  point  these  two  had  reached  by  such  a  round  of  toil  and  danger. 
From  this  to  that,  there  was  no  passing,  though.  They  could 
hail  each  other,  with  shawls  and  scarfs  tied  upon  bough  and  staff, 
and  waved  in  signal.  That  was  all.  And  then  by  their  two  roads, 


236  The  Gayworthys. 

they  went  their  ways  down  the  two  separate  sides  of  stern,  uncom- 
promising old  Boar-back. 

There  is  no  act  or  circumstance  but  bears  its  typical  relations. 
We  feel  obscurely  many  times,  a  meaning  and  significance  in  what 
we  do, — a  method  in  our  accidents,  that  startles  us  with  a  fear, 
a  joy,  an  embarrassment ;  that  carries  us  by  a  strange  likeness 
or  suggestion,  into  a  past  that  we  dimly,  and  perhaps  mysteriously 
remember,  or  forereaches  into  a  future  moment  that  might  come. 

Not  a  word  was  said  of  it  in  the  merry  party  that  turned  off 
together  down  the  south-side  track,  relieved  and  satisfied  to  have 
seen  their  companions  safe, — far  less  between  the  two  left  so  to 
their  own  separate  pilgrimage.  But  it  was  like — and  they  all 
had  a  glimmer  of  the  likeness — the  setting  forth  of  two  together 
in  such  fashion,  striking  off  and  away  into  a  strange  and  untried 
life-path  opened  for  them  only.  Relinquished  to  each  other ; 
cheered  away  with  friendly  signals  ;  but  left  then  to  their  own 
shiftings  ;  to  make  the  best  of  it  they  might. 

Say  had  a  strange  shyness  come  over  her  for  a  minute,  that  she 
did  not  try  to  define  ;  Gershom  had  as  strange  a  pulse, — a  single 
one, — of  something  gladder  than  he  cared  to  question,  as  they 
turned  and  met  each  other's  faces,  after  watching  the  rest  away 
among  the  shadows,  and  stood  alone  again  with  wilderness  above, 
below,  about  them. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said,  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

And  Say  came. 

There  was  a  joy  of  claim  and  confidence,  unanalyzed,  between 
them  in  that  instant.  A  key-note  struck, — responded ;  a  phrase 
of  music  uttered,  revealing  the  whole  power  and  harmony  life  had 
for  them.  It  should  be  played  out, — somewhere.  If  only  there 
were  no  discords  that  might  lie  between  this  and  its  full  evolve- 
ment ! 

They  kept  the  crest-line  of  the  Spur,  down  to  where  thick  woods 
began  again  ;  it  led  them  straight  to  the  opening  of  the  logging- 
road,  cut  through  a  dense  growth  of  trees,  and  winding  down 
between  tangled  branches  and  underbrush.  A  mere  gully  it 
seemed,  now  ;  a  path  for  a  mountain  torrent,  or  a  wake  left  by  some 
old  tornado  ;  it  was  the  only  way  through  impenetrable  forest. 
Disused  long  ago,  and  fallen  into  more  than  its  original  roughness, 
by  reason  of  rains,  and  gradual  change  of  wearing  earth  and  roll- 
ing stone,  and  forest  fall  and  decay,  it  was  no  easy  path,  though 
a  sure  one,  and  devoid  of  all  absolute  danger. 

It  was  down-hill,  without  break  or  rest.  Say  sprang,  as  she 
needs  must,  from  rock  to  stump, — from  log  to  knoll, — flying  leaps, 
some  of  them, — on  without  pause ;  getting  exhilarated  again  by 
the  exercise  and  rapid  progress,  and  not  realizing  the  fatigue  she 
was  actually  enduring.  Breath  failed  a  little  after  a  time ;  and  she 
caught  herself  up  against  the  over-leaning  trunk  of  an  oak  and 


Over  East  Spur.  237 

looked  back  to  Gershom,  who  was  close  behind,  with  a  panting, 
comical  appeal. 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  any  '  down  '  to  it ;  it's  one  everlasting 
tumble." 

"  Half-way  down  we  shall  find  a  rest ;  and  then  we  shall  be 
sure  about  our  daylight.  Are  you  warm  ?  " 

"  Exhaling !  " 

"  Thirsty  ? 

"  What's  the  use  ?  " 

He  held  out  his  tin  cup,  sparkling  with  its  little  treasure  of  water. 

"Where  did  you  find  that  ?  I've  seen  none." 

"  I  knew  of  a  spring,  just  back  here,  off  the  road,  and  turned 
in  luckily,  at  the  right  spot." 

"  I  didn't  miss  you.     How  strange  !  " 

"  It  only  took  a  minute.  I  didn't  want  to  say  water,  until  I'd 
got  it." 

"  No,  indeed.     I  should  have  choked,  instantly." 

"  Drink  now,  then." 

Simple  little  words  these,  that  they  exchanged ;  but  they  were 
very  sweet  with  the  old,  familiar  ease  and  sympathy  ;  very  sweet, 
also,  was  the  draught  Say  took  from  the  tiny  dipper.  It  was  beau- 
tiful to  be  cared  for  so,  and  by  Gershom  !  It  was  like  the  old  time 
of  the  clothes-room  and  the  strawberry  feasting.  Oh,  dear  !  why 
must  they  ever  come  out  of  the  woods,  and  go  back — she  knew 
they  would — to  their  distance,  and  their  different  ways,  and  their 
half  understandings  ? 

It  was  very  lovely  and  pleasant,  half-way  down,  where  a  huge 
rock  upheaved  and  abutted  itself  gathering  against  its  sturdy  back 
the  soil  and  sod  that  made  a  soft  sylvan  throne  under  wide  oak 
branches,  where  Gershom  lifted  Say  and  placed  her,  and  sat  him- 
self down  at  her  side. 

They  had  earned  a  rest ;  they  had  gained  time  to  take  it ;  there 
was  no  keen  wind  here ;  Say  only  drew  up  the  folds  of  her  shawl 
about  her  throat  again,  that  she  had  pushed  back  upon  her  shoul- 
ders in  the  heat  of  her  down-scramble.  And  the  twilight  was  about 
them,  soft  and  sweet ;  and  little  trickling  music  of  unseen  water, 
and  faint  evening  chirp  of  early  birds  ;  and  away  off  to  the  south- 
east lay  other  hills,  purple  in  the  level  light ;  while,  behind,  the 
great  might  of  Boar-back,  with  all  its  mysteries  and  grandeur  of 
cliff  and  chasm,  and  piled-up  solid  heights,  and  unexplored  ravines, 
and  pathless  woods,  lifted  and  stretched  itself  too  vast  for  them  to 
see  until  they  should  get  away  from  it,  and  it,  too,  should  shape 
itself  in  purple  distance. 

Say  could  not  help  feeling  very  happy.  Too  quietly  happy,  too 
tired,  perhaps,  to  talk  much  ;  so  she  sat  and  thought.  Thoughts 
came  abundantly.  How  different  this  day's  life  had  been  from 
ordinary  living !  How  grand  and  awful  the  world  was,  with  its 
high  and  hidden  places,  where  people  might  come  and  look,  but 


238  The  Gayworthys. 

by  no  means  abide  !  The  great  mountains — waste  land — acres 
and  acres  of  bare  granite,  and  untamable  wilds — that  were  no- 
body's land — but  God's. 

And  then — as  such  do  bring  themselves  to  our  remembrance — 
some  words  of  Holy  Scripture  flashed  bright  across  her  thinking. 
Over  and  over,  she  was  saying  them  to  herself,  with  a  new  per- 
ception. 

"  Say  !     What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

Say  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  answered — 

"  '  The  strength  of  the  hills.'     I  never  knew  what  it  was  before." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  now  ?  " 

Gershom  asked  somewhat  curiously.  He  had  not  caught  the 
precise  thread  of  her  musing.  She  had  not  quoted  all  the  words. 

"  The  force  that  is  holding  all  these  rocks  together,  with  such 
a  might,  and  keeps  them  up  in  their  terrible  places.  Particle  by 
particle,  you  know." 

"  Cohesion,  yes  ;  and  gravitation." 

"  That's  what  it  says  in  the  philosophies.  But,  Gershom,  what 
is  cohesion  ?  " 

"  You  said  ;  one  of  the  forces  of  nature." 

"  But  those  are  only  names.  Gershom,  is  it  something  living  ? 
Is  it  God?  working  His  work,  right  here,  and  everywhere  ?  "  Her 
voice  lowered  timidly,  and  awfully. 

"  I  don't  know."  The  young  man's  answer  was  a  little  con- 
strained. 

Say  was  out  of  herself  for  the  moment.  She  forgot  to  be  ruled  ; 
the  press  of  a  high  thought  was  upon  her ;  that  she  would  not 
have  uttered  without  urging ;  that,  being  urged,  must  be  uttered 
in  full. 

"  '  The  strength  of  the  hills  is  His  also,"  "  she  repeated  slowly. 
"  It  reminded  me  of  that,  and  it  seems  to  mean  a  living  strength. 
Like  ours  that  is  in  us." 

Gershom  looked  round  into  Say's  face.  It  was  turned  away 
from  him,  and  up  toward  the  towering  mass  that  lay  beside  and 
behind  them,  filling  the  whole  northwestern  sky  with  its  heights 
of  gloom. 

She  was  in  earnest,  then  ;  and  this  was  a  real  thought  of  hers. 
There  was  something  curious  about  this  child,  with  her  bronze 
boots  and  her  "  behavior,"  with  her  grown-up  elegance,  that  he 
called  frippery  and  sham,  her  refinements,  that  seemed  to  him,  often, 
grappler  as  he  was  with  realities,  the  flimsiest  of  affectations,  beneath 
which  nothing  real  and  true  could  be. 

He  was  not  startled  or  offended  at  this  name  of  "  God,"  as  many 
a  young  man  in  society,  going  to  church  regularly  of  a  Sunday,  but 
holding  church  topics  tabooed  in  polite  talk  of  a  weekday,  might 
have  been.  He  had  had  little  church-going,  these  last  eight  years  ; 
he  had  seen  little  of  the  decorum  of  a  trained  Christianity;  the 
Great  Name  had  been  often  in  his  ears,  when  it  was  not  a  reverence 


Over  East  Spur.  239 

but  a  blasphemy  :  but  he  had  been  among  men  who  had  their  own 
thoughts,  after  all,  of  God,  and  the  great  beyond  ;  who,  when  these 
came  uppermost,  spoke  them,  without  whining  or  shamefacedness  ; 
rough,  unscrupulous,  even  doubting  thoughts,  they  might  be ;  yet 
real,  unmechanical ;  avowed  as  readily  as  any  other  thoughts ; 
laid  away  for  no  set  and  proper  occasions,  and  held  an  indecency 
at  common  times.  It  was  not  this  that  made  his  constraint ;  it  was 
a  something  that  lay  only  between  him  and  Sarah  Gair :  the  girl 
he  would  not  have  utter  faith  in  ;  whom  he  would  not  willingly 
draw  near  to  with  any  touch  of  a  deep  sympathy.  "  Trusting  and 
expecting."  He  would  have  nothing  of  that ;  least  of  all  with 
Jane  Gair's  child. 

Yet  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  ;  and  he  saw  her  face  lit  with  a 
real  earnest  thought.  It  was  there,  for  the  moment,  at  least ;  there 
was  no  discrediting  it. 

He  had  heard  her  speak  Bible  words — even  utter  her  under- 
standing of  them — before ;  in  the  New  England  home  where  they 
had  been  so  much  together,  under  the  sweet,  saintly  influence  of 
Aunt  Rebecca,  it  would  have  been  strange  if  he  had  not.  But  it 
had  seemed  like  hearsay ;  interpretation  put  upon  her ;  Sunday- 
school  drill ;  matter  of  course  ;  a  part  of  the  great  system,  deep  or 
shallow,  as  you  took  it,  whereof  the  text  and  platform  was,  as  Say 
had  expressed  it  of  old,  "  People  must  behave,  you  know."  Ab- 
stract theory,  to  which  it  was  proper  to  subscribe,  but  which  had 
little  vital  connection  with  any  everyday  doing  or  apprehension  ; 
except,  perhaps, — as  in  the  beauty  of  that  home  the  exception  had 
been  forced  upon  him,— with  grand,  kindly-natured  old  men,  and 
saintly,  world-innocent  women. 

But  here  was  a  sudden,  spontaneous  recognition  of  "  something 
living."  Something  living  in  the  dead  rock  ;  something  living  in 
the  old  words  that  sung  their  mountain-psalm  to  the  world  three 
thousand  years  ago. 

Against  his  will,  there  was  something  living  touched  in  the 
sailor's  soul. 

And  against  this,  came  up  the  perplexity,  the  doubt,  of  a  hard 
life,  among  hard,  suffering  lives. 

"  The  strength  of  the  hills  is  a  very  pitiless  strength."  This  was 
what  he  said  to  her,  after  that  silent  look,  in  answer. 

There  came  a  shadow  and  a  questioning  over  the  face  that 
turned  now  and  met  his  look  with  its  own.  She  waited  for  more. 
She  hardly  understood. 

"  If  you  or  I  had  fallen  from  the  cliff,  among  these  rocks,  what 
would  their  forces  have  done  for  us  ?  " 

"  Crushed  us."  The  words  came  with  a  low  horror  in  their 
tone. 

"  Pitilessly.     I  said  so." 

"  I  don't  know."  Say  spoke  slowly,  in  her  turn,  using  his  own 
words,  pausing  between  the  syllables. 


240  The  Gayworthys. 

"  No ;  we  don't  know.  The  world  is  full  of  awful  strength, 
and  men  run  against  it  everywhere,  like  helpless  things,  and  are 
crushed.  If  the  rocks  are  pitiless,  the  sea  seems  worse.  The 
rocks  wait ;  but  the  sea  rushes  after  you,  and  beats  upon  you,  and 
fights  for  your  life.  Then  think  of  all  the  waste  places,  where 
beasts  and  savages  howl,  and  tear,  and  torture  each  other.  And 
safe  people,  in  quiet  little  villages,  sit  together  in  comfortable 
meeting-houses,  dressed  up,  to  please  each  other,  and  talk  about 
God !  and  think  they  understand  something  about  Him  !  Hand- 
fuls  of  people,  in  little  corners  of  the  great  world  !  And  the  wars, 
and  the  tempests,  and  the  starvings  and  burnings,  and  drownings 
and  cursings  are  going  on,  all  over  it,  at  the  self-same  time !  " 

Say  had  no  reply  for  this,  for  an  instant.  It  was  too  dreadful,  in 
its  doubt  and  its  darkness ;  too  overwhelming  with  its  outside 
force  of  truth. 

"  But — "  she  said  presently,  "  God  must  be  there.  He  is  every- 
where. You  believe  it,  don't  you,  Gershom  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  do.  I  suppose  I  believe  pretty  much  what  other 
people  do.  But  I  can't  settle  everything  by  rule  and  line  as 
they  do.  I  don't  know  much,  and  I  see  terrible  mysteries  in  the 
world." 

Say  sat  and  thought  silently.     All  at  once  she  brightened. 

"  But  these  are  mysteries  of  nature,  and  dangers  of  men's  bodies. 
There's  the  soul ;  and  God's  soul  is  behind  his  strength,  as  men's 
are  behind  theirs." 

"  You'd  better  not  talk  to  me,  Say,  about  these  things.  I  don't 
know,  altogether,  what  I  do  think  ;  and  I've  some  thoughts  you 
mightn't  be  the  better  of." 

"  Oh,  Gershie  !  "  was  on  Say's  lips  to  cry.  But  she  had  an  in- 
stinctive knowledge  that  with  the  first  symptom  of  personal  feel- 
ing the  talk  would  be  over,  and  she  could  not  have  it  end  just  so. 

She  was  silent,  but  she  did  not  stir.  Gershom  waited  her  move- 
ment, and  she  made  none.  She  sat  and  looked,  still,  at  the  great 
mountain,  with  its  hidden,  living  strength. 

"  It  must  be  all  right !"  The  words  escaped  her  at  length,  half 
involuntarily. 

"  I  wonder  what  you'd  say  about  men's  souls  if  you'd  seen  the 
things  I  have."  This  came,  an  utterance  almost  as  involuntary, 
out  of  Gershom's  silent  thinking. 

Say  sat  still,  and  answered  never  a  word.  Silence  draws  some- 
times more  than  speech. 

"  Grinding,  and  persecution,  and  treachery,  and  meanness,  and 
every  sin  and  shame  that  has  a  name,  or  is  too  bad  for  one." 

"  You  must  have  seen  horrible  things,  Gershom,"  said  Say,  in  a 
suppressed  tone.  "But  haven't  you  seen^w*/  things,  sometimes, 
too  ?  I  know  you  have  !  " 

Here,  again,  there  was  more  upon  her  lips  that  she  dared  not 
speak.  His  own  brave,  noble  doings  were  quick  in  her  mind,  warm 


Over  East  Spur.  241 

at  her  heart ;  but  Gershom  would  "  Pshaw  ! "  if  she  breathed  of 
these  to  him  ,  and  that  would  end  everything  at  once,  with  a  cold 
revulsion, 

"  They  were  like  light  in  a  great  darkness,"  said  Gershom. 
moodily. 

"  But  you  see  you  have  not  lived  at  home.  You  have  seen  the 
hardest  part  of  life." 

"  I've  seen  the  largest  part,  and  I've  found  out  something  about 
homes,  and  your  good,  Christian  people,  too !  "  he  added,  with  the 
old,  bitter  sneer.  "  I  tell  you,  it's  a  fine  thing,  and  an  easy  thing, 
of  a  pleasant  Sunday,  in  a  comfortable  church,  between  a  good 
breakfast  and  dinner,  with  every  nerve  at  rest,  to  believe  pretty 
things  about  God  and  religion.  But  what  if  you  were  hungry,  and 
had  no  home  ?  What  if  your  bones  were  crushed,  and  you  were 
lying  in  some  hospital,  and  nobody  cared  for  you,  and  they  only 
counted  you  as  'a  bed'?  I've  seen  men  so, — shipmates.  What  if 
your  whole  life  was  nothing  but  one  great  Pain  ?  " 

There  was  a  hush  again  until  Say  said,  tremulously  and  humbly, 
speaking  beyond  herself  and  her  little  experience,  surely,  that  which 
was  given  her  for  herself  and  for  that  other  soul  also. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  unless  I  found  that  God  was  in  the  pain,  too !" 

"  But  suppose  " — Gershom  went  on,  remorselessly  now,  swayed 
by  his  own  bitter  impulse  of  doubt  born  of  the  hard  things  he  had 
seen  and  suffered, — "  suppose  you'd  been  deceived,  till  you  couldn't 
trust  them  that  ought  to  be  your  best  friends ;  suppose  that  you 
had  never  known  more  than  three  people  that  you  could  believe  in, 
and  suppose  you'd  known  them  cheated  and  ill-used  till  it  was 
harder  to  think  of  for  them  than  for  yourself;  supposing  you  had 
seen  all  the  rest  of  the  world  outwitting  and  hustling  and  chuckling 
over  each  other  like  the  devil's  own  children,  till  you  were  ready  to 
hate  the  very  sun  for  shining  on  such  things  ?  Where  would  you 
find  God  and  goodness  in  all  that  ?  " 

Say  stood  up  suddenly  before  him.  Instead  of  a  direct  answer, 
she  gave,  for  all  his  questions,  a  single,  searching  one,  that  rang 
clear  over  the  confusion  that  was  in  him. 

"  Gershom  Vorse!  do  you  think  you  are  the  only  soul  God  has 
made  capable  of  hating  such  things  as  these  ?  " 

Out  of  his  very  scorn  he  was  answered. 

He  stood  upon  his  feet,  too,  then.  He  looked  again  in  the 
glowing  young  face,  that  was  almost  angry  in  its  bending  upon 
him.  It  was  better  than  if  she  had  told  him  of  his  goodness,  his 
bravery;  she  had  charged  him  boldly  with  a  haughty  assumption 
in  this  noble  hate  of  his  ;  she  had  given  him  a  weapon  for  his  in- 
nate truth  to  grasp,  against  his  own  dark  uncertainties.  Some- 
thing lighted  and  softened  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  upon  her. 

"  That  was  a  good  word,"  he  said  honestly,  with  a  changed 
tone.  "  A  good  word  for  a  last  one.  We'll  let  that  be  the  end 
of  it." 


242  The  Gayworthys. 

The  rest  of  the  walk  was  nothing.  The  getting  home  to  Cousin 
Wealthy's,  the  nice  supper,  the  answering  their  eager  questions, 
the  being  comfortably  helped  to  bed  by  Aunt  Joanna ;  all  these 
were  well  enough  at  any  other  time,  but  she  went  through  them 
all  mechanically.  At  most,  they  were  but  interruptions. 

"  She  is  tired  out,"  they  said. 

Say  lay  down  to  her  rest  with  crowding  thoughts ;  with  some 
misgivings,  but  a  great  peace  shining  through  them  all.  She  had 
said  "  a  good  word  "  to  Gershom.  It  had  pleased  him,  for  that  it 
was  true  and  bold.  She  had  met  him  on  his  own  ground.  They 
had  come  near  each  other  again,  at  last.  She  wondered  at  her 
own  new  strength ;  she,  that  had  always  been  so  timid, — so  easily 
put  down. 

Would  things  be  different  after  this?  She  wondered  how  it 
would  be  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

SUNDAY. 

IN  the  morning  Lancly  came  over  early  with  inquiries  and  a 
parcel.  Say's  dress  for  the  Sunday,  and  other  needfuls.  When 
the  sweet  breath  of  the  woods  and  the  wild  singing  coming  in 
upon  her  through  the  window  Joanna  had  softly  set  open,  roused 
Say  to  a  full  wakefulness,  she  saw,  delicately  laid  out  on  one 
chair,  the  pansy-muslin  carefully  pressed  over,  and  the  puffings 
perked  out  in  all  the  dainty  freshness  of  its  first  day :  on  another, 
in  the  opposite  window,  the  blue  foulard, — looped  and  knotted 
and  draggled  and  rent ;  looking  like  a  banner  brought  home  from 
battle.  Beside  it,  on  the  floor,  lay  the  little  black  boots,  so  trim 
and  neat  yesterday  at  starting,  bursted  and  torn,  trodden  into 
such  shape  as  no  boot  of  hers  had  ever  come  to  before  ;  making 
her  think  of  the  twelve  princesses  in  the  fairy  tale  who  myste- 
riously danced  their  shoes  out  every  night.  It  was  lik?  :  night- 
vision  to  her,  almost,  the  recollection  of  that  mountain  dance  of 
yesterday  ;  like  a  dream,  the  strange,  earnest  talk  with  Gershom  ; 
but  a  blessed,  present  joy, — something  that  she  grasped  to  her 
soul, — the  tone  that  rang  back  to  her  recollection  as  she  had  it 
from  his  lips,  at  the  last,  his  harshness  and  bitterness  suddenly 
swept  away — 

"  That's  a  good  word.     For  the  last.     We'll  let  it  be  the  end." 

It  was  so  honest  and  noble  of  him,  too,  taking  the  good  out  of 
it,  when  she  had  felt  it  hard  and  sharp  in  the  saying, — launched 
with  almost  a  passionate  indignation. 

She  was  half  sorry  to  break  the  spell ;  to  come  down  in  her 
proper  and  nice  array  again ;  she  would  almost  rather  have  put 


Sunday.  243 

on  the  old,  bedraggled,  forlorn  foulard,  if  so  she  could  have  kept 
the  spirit  of  some  of  those  moments  of  which  it  was  like  a  sacred 
relic.  She  rolled  it  tenderly  up  with  all  its  rags  and  stains,  putting 
the  demolished  boots  within  it,  resolving  to  herself,  secretly,  that 
it  should  never  go  the  way  of  other  rags  and  wrecks,  but  that  she 
would  put  it  carefully  where  she  might  keep  it  safely,  always. 

For  Gershom  had  seemed  like  a  brother  again  ;  and  she  had 
said  one  word  to  him  that  he  had  confessed  was  good. 

Very  sisterly,  this  was,  all  of  it.  Say  thought  so.  She  had  never 
had  a  real  brother ;  so  how  should  she  be  supposed  to  know  ? 

She  could  not  help  her  habit  of  niceness  ;  she  could  not  turn 
away  from  that  image  in  the  little  mirror  until  every  wavy  line  lay 
smooth  upon  the  bright  head,  and  rolled  itself  away  gracefully 
into  the  braids  behind  ;  any  more  than  an  artist  could  turn  from 
his  work,  leaving  a  heedless  or  mistaken  touch.  It  was  habit, — 
instinct ;  sense  of  the  pure  and  perfect ;  these  more  than  vanity. 
She  could  not  have  done  violence  to  her  nature, — she  could  not 
deliberately  make  herself  dowdy, — even  though  Gershom  should 
have  really  liked  her  better,  so.  Which,  knowing  something  of 
men  and  their  contradictions,  we  may  feel  tolerably  safe  in  doubt- 
ing, after  all. 

She  had  slept  late.  When  she  entered  the  room  below,  she 
found  only  Joanna  sitting  there,  and  the  table  cleared,  except  of 
one  pink-and-white  china  plate,  and  a  quaint  little  coffee-mug  and 
saucer  to  match. 

Cousin  Wealthy  brought  in  two  fresh  wheaten  rolls,  baked  since 
Say's  footstep  had  first  sounded  above  ;  two  new-laid  eggs,  boiled 
since  her  door  had  opened  ;  a  little  pitcher  of  golden-brown  coffee, 
steaming  oriental  perfume ;  a  tiny,  shallow,  silver  sauceboat,  filled 
with  yellow  cream  ;  and  a  pat  of  June  butter,  with  a  daisy  stamped 
on  it. 

There  came  a  double  tread  of  men's  feet  over  the  platform  out- 
side as  Say  sat  down. 

"  We  had  company  come  last  night,"  said  Cousin  Wealthy;  and 
Gershom  entered,  followed  by  a  tall,  strong,  grizzled,  sea-browned 
man,  with  sailor  gait,  whose  dark,  searching  eyes  that  had  looked 
on  strange  lands  and  people  everywhere  all  over  the  earth,  glanced 
round  him  here,  as  if  this  port  of  home,  of  all  others,  were  strangest. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Blackmere,"  said  Gershom,  in  an  off-hand  way. 
that  sounded  like  "  Now  I've  mentioned  it,  you've  nothing  more  to 
do  with  it." 

But  Say  had  heard  of  Ned  Blackmere ;  she  rose  from  her  chair, 
and  walked  to  meet  him,  putting  out  her  hand.  Looking  straight 
up,  also,  with  a  certain  warm  reverence  in  her  eyes,  into  his  hard, 
rough  face. 

I  think  Ned  Blackmere  had  not  touched  a  woman's  hand  before 
for  twenty  years,  perhaps.  How  do  you  think  he  felt,  then,  as  the 
soft,  pure  little  fingers  lay  for  a  moment  in  his,  that  had  known 


244  The  Gayworthys. 

nothing  softer  than  tarred  ropes  and  marlinspikes ;  and  the  eyes 
that  had  never  learned  to  keep  the  soul  back  out  of  them,  looked 
up,  so,  into  his  own  ? 

Say  saw  something  in  his  face  that  few  had  met  there  before  ; 
she  thought  he  looked  gentle  and  kind.  She  saw  something  that 
did  not  look  quite  strange  to  her  ;  it  was  as  if  the  look  had  some- 
how come  into  her  life  before.  Then  she  remembered  the  old  days 
of  the  Pearl,  and  the  cracking  of  cocoanuts.  There  was  where  it 
had  been  ;  yet  the  familiar  gleam  came  with  its  sudden  grace  of 
tenderness,  that  did  not  join  itself  to  her  memories  of  the  rough 
sailors.  Presently,  it  was  gone  ,  and  when  she  looked  again  she 
could  not  remember  that  she  had  ever  seen  his  face  at  all. 

Gershom  had  been  at  home  ten  days.  He  had  received  a  letter 
from  the  owners  in  New  York  whose  ship  he  had  saved  and 
brought  home,  offering  him  the  command  again,  when  she  should 
have  been  put  in  repair.  He  simply  declined  it,  with  thanks. 
To  his  mother  he  gave  reasons  ;  they  were  her  due ;  for  her  sake, 
it  was  his  business  to  rise,  if  he  could. 

"  They  expect  work  of  their  captains  that  I  couldn't  do,  mother. 
Work  that  isn't  in  the  written  orders,  and  couldn't  be,  in  lawful- 
ness and  honesty.  When  I'm  a  merchant-captain,  I  mean  to  be 
one  ;  and  no  smuggler,  out  or  in.' 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me. 
Write  a  letter  to  Blackmere, — a  motherly  letter,  mother, — and 
get  him  up  here  into  the  hills,  /can't  do  it;  I've  tried.  He 
says  he's  no  fit  company  for  anything  but  his  ship  and  his  pipe. 
And  yet,  the  man  has  got  a  soul  like  a  king  ! " 

Prudence  wrote ,  such  a  letter  as  the  "  real  mothers "  only 
write.  The  kingly  soul  recognized  its  genuineness,  through  the 
wrong  and  prejudice  of  years.  Ned  Blackmere  came  ;  riding  up 
into  Hilbury  hills  that  same  Saturday  twilight  wherein  Gershom 
and  Say  were  having  their  talk  under  the  shadow  of  Boar-back. 

The  sailor  asked  Wealthy  for  a  match  ;  and  then  he  and  Ger- 
shom went  out  again  upon  the  platform  and  Blackmere  smoked 
his  pipe. 

By  and  by,  the  sweet  country  chimes  began.  Through  the  still 
air  they  answered  each  other  up  and  down  the  valley  and  sent 
their  tender  echoes  from  the  hills.  There  were  new  churches  in 
the  factory  village  at  the  Bridge ;  but  all  the  beautiful  and  holy 
memories  clustered  still  around  the  ancient  meeting-house  at  the 
Center.  No  old  Hilbury  people  thought  of  going  to  any  other. 
Its  mellow  bell  rang  dearer,  solemner  tones  than  all  the  rest. 

The  "  colt  " — Wealthy  never  had  any  but  a  colt ;  the  old  one 
was  dead  and  gone  long  ago,  and  she  had  driven  his  successor, 
now,  for  eight  years — stood  harnessed  to  the  wagon ;  Say  and 
Joanna  came  down  in  their  Sunday  bonnets ;  Joanna's  ribbons  and 
laces  smelling  of  the  quaint,  faint  breath  of  musk  that  our  grand- 
mothers loved. 


Sunday.  245 

"  Will  you  go  to  meeting,  Gershom  ?  "  Joanna  asked  him,  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  guess  not,"  he  answered,  with  a  shadow  of  gruffness. 
"  It's  as  good  out  here  in  the  woods  ;  and  the  dress-up  takes  down 
the  devotion,  rather — for  me." 

"Folks  will  expect  to  see  you ;  you  didn't  go  last  Sunday." 

"Folks?  I  should  suppose  it  was  the  Lord.  And  I  don't  want 
to  be  seen  of  men, — or  women." 

Joanna  hadn't  her  gentle  human  theory, — her  "  God-sibb," — 
ready  at  the  moment,  for  answer ;  she  let  it  pass  ;  it  was  Ger- 
shom1 s  way. 

Say  passed  by  him  and  spoke  to  Blackmere  out  beyond. 

"  Won't  you  go  to  church  with  us,  Mr.  Blackmere  ?  "  she  said, 
with  the  same  sweet  up-look  at  him  she  had  given  him  before.  It 
was  to  the  unused  sailor  very  much  as  if  a  flower  had  lifted  up  its 
head  and  spoken. 

"  Yes.  I'll  go."  He  hardly  knew  whether  he  had  answered  of 
his  own  will ;  but  the  words  came  and  he  stood  pledged.  Ger- 
shom lifted  his  eyelids  a  little,  and  said  nothing. 

So  they  drove  off;  so  Ned  Blackmere,  the  rough  old  salt,  used 
to  the  weather-earing  in  a  gale,  used  to  everything  that  was  hard 
and  perilous  and  coarse,  with  only  a  dream  in  the  far  back  past, 
of  a  child's  home  and  a  mother;  of  a  sister  who  had  turned  his 
love  into  bitterness  ;  of  a  wife  who  had  made  him  hate  and  for- 
swear all  women,  for  her  vile  and  disloyal  sake — found  himself 
among  women  once  more  ;  found  himself  presently  in  the  quiet 
house  whence  prayers  go  up  to  God. 

He  sat  there  in  a  sort  of  maze,  as  in  a  vision  one  might  seem  to 
see  a  world  into  which  one  had  never  been  born. 

He  wondered  if  this  were  the  real  thing,  and  the  great  world 
outside  that  tossed  and  struggled  and  endured,  were  a  huge  mis- 
take. For  twenty  years  he  had  never  stumbled  into  a  scene  like 
this  ;  and  here  were  people  to  whom  it  was  the  soul  of  their  whole 
lives.  Why  had  God  given  this,  and  that?  If  He  were,  and  if 
this  were  His  ordained  way  of  finding  Him,  why  was  it  only  pos- 
sible in  safe  nooks,  while  the  wild  world  was  roaring  without,  and 
the  danger  of  it  to  be  dared  by  souls  made  hard  and  reckless  to 
meet  it,  and  the  labor  of  it  to  be  done  by  hands  that  had  no  time 
to  lift  themselves  in  prayer? 

The  sermon  did  not  help  him.  After  a  little,  he  tried  not  to  listen 
to  it.  Once  he  caught  himself  in  the  beginning  of  a  breath  that 
would  have  been  a  whistle  instantly.  It  was  so  hard  for  him  with 
his  vague,  bewildered  thoughts,  and  his  habits  of  unconstraint,  to 
remember  the  traditional  sanctities  of  the  place. 

His  dark  features  gathered  themselves  more  than  once  into  a 
heavy  frown  as  sentences  of  the  preacher  broke  in  upon  his  musing, 
and  forced  a  hearing.  Only  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  Say,  they  some- 
times softened.  She  watched  him  when  he  was  not  looking,  and 


246  The  Gayworthys. 

tried  to  imagine  what  the  secret  consciousness  behind  that  stern 
face  might  be  like. 

In  the  nooning  Say  joined  herself  to  Blackmere  again,  and  asked 
him  to  come  into  the  churchyard.  She  would  show  him  old  grave- 
stones and  curious  inscriptions.  She  felt  responsible  for  him  since 
she  had  brought  him  here,  that  he  should  not  feel  strange  or  dull. 

They  stood  by  graves  inviolate  for  upwards  of  a  century. 

"They  rest  quiet  enough — all  of  'em,"  said  the  sailor.  "Don't 
they  ?  " 

"  '  In  the  hope  of  a  blessed  resurrection,"  read  Say,  from  a  gray 
stone,  in  answer. 

"  '  Asleep  in  Jesus,'  "  repeated  Blackmere,  standing  before  an- 
other. "  Well,  they  seem  sure  enough  about  that,  some  of  'era. 
Seems  to  me,  when  there's  so  few  to  be  privileged,  it  won't  do  to 
be  too  certain.  How  about  them  that  never  knew  whether  Jesus 
cared  a  hang  for  them  or  not  ?  " 

A  shadow  of  contraction  passed  over  Say's  face  at  the  reckless 
expression. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  a  rough  fellow.  I'd  no  business  to 
come  here  at  all." 

"  They  have  all  been  taught.  We  all  know  that  He  came  to 
save  us."  Say  answered  his  first  words,  now,  as  if  they  had  been 
spoken  in  all  reverence. 

"  Do  we  ?  '  There  was  a  curl  of  the  lip,  and  a  slight  sarcasm  in 
the  tone. 

The  young  girl  looked  pained. 

"  See  here  !  "  said  Blackmere  again  ;  "  you're  not  the  sort  of 
person  for  me  to  speak  out  to  so  ;  and  yet,  somehow,  I  can't  help 
it.  I  don't  know  why,  but  you've  got  me  here  ;  and  now  you  make 
me  talk.  So  if  it  isn't  just  the  sort  of  talk  or  the  ways  of  thinking 
that  you've  been  used  to,  you  must  think  what  I've  been  used  to, 
and  overlook  it.  I've  never  had  much  good  of  preachers;  and  till 
this  blessed  morning  I  haven't  set  foot  in  a  church  for  over  twenty 
years.  And  what  do  they  tell  me  when  I  do  come  ?  You  heard  it. 
That  man  stood  up  and  explained  the  Almighty's  secret  plans.  He 
don't  mean  to  save  everybody.  Now  I'm  only  a  poor,  good-for- 
nothing  devil  of  a  sailor,  and  of  course  I  don't  know  ;  but  if  /came 
with  a  lifeboat  to  a  wreck,  I'd  make  no  such  half-job  of  it.  I'd 
save  every  soul  on  board,  or  I'd  go  down  trying ! " 

Say's  heart  swelled.  She  could  find  nothing  to  say.  She  felt 
the  fearfulness  of  this  Heaven-arraigning  ;  but  she  felt,  also,  the 
nobleness  that  Heaven  itself  had  given. 

"  He's  laid  it  all  out  beforehand  and  forever.  He's  elected  some 
to  salvation,  and  some  to  damnation.  1  beg  your  pardon  again  ; 
but  that's  the  preacher's  word  ;  and  the  Bible  word  too,  it  seems. 
And  it's  the  word  my  life  corresponds  to.  It's  easy  to  tell  which 
watch  I'm  in." 

"  It's  difficult  to  understand  what  they  mean  exactly,  by  these 


Sunday.  247 

doctrines,"  said  Say  timidly.  "  I've  never  heard  them  much  ex- 
cept in  Hilbury.  I  think  it  was  the  hard,  old  way  of  taking  Bible 
words.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  some  thoughts  of  my  own  this 
morning,  while  Mr.  Scarsley  was  preaching." 

Blackmere  went  on  again,  when  she  paused,  as  following  out  his 
own  reflections,  almost  unheeding  her  words. 

"  The  damnation  began  when  I  was  nothing  better  than  a  baby," 
he  said,  bitterly.  The  curse  came  among  us  then.  And  it's  gone 
on  ever  since  ;  been  piled  down  upon  me  heavier  and  heavier. 
Did  you  ever  hear  about  my  life,  young  lady  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  great  deal  that  you  have  suffered.  I  have 
heard  of  very  noble  things  that  you  have  done." 

"  I've  been  in  prison ;  for  a  crime.  I've  got  a  halter  round  my 
neck  this  minute, — or  the  brand  of  it.  Did  you  know  that  ?  " 

His  tone  grew  sharp  and  fierce. 

"  I  knew  you  were  accused  ;  and  I  knew  you  were  proved  inno- 
cent." 

"  No.  Not  proved.  They  only  couldn't  make  it  out  against  me. 
Some  of  'em  believe  it  to  this  day." 

"  I  don't  think  that.  But  it  has  been  a  hard  thing.  A  hard  thing 
given  you  to  bear,"  she  said,  slowly,  with  a  hidden  meaning  of 
consolation. 

"  A  piece  of  the  damnation.  A  thing  to  keep  me  down  and 
thrust  me  out.  To  make  a  vagabond  of  me,  and  clinch  the  sen- 
tence." 

Say  trembled,  standing  there,  at  the  man's  passion. 

She  had  never  had  to  teach.  It  was  hard  for  her  Drying  to  guide 
even  ever  so  slightly,  the  current  of  a  human  thought  upon  these 
themes  of  life  and  death.  There  was  the  shrinking  every  young 
soul  feels  at  unveiling  its  secret  faith.  She  was  far  from  taking  it 
deliberately  upon  herself  to  admonish ;  to  set  this  doubting  and 
discouraged  spirit  right  with  God.  She  knew,  oh  !  very  little.  She 
had  seldom  asked  herself,  even,  what  she  truly  did  know  or  believe. 
Life  had  not  put  its  sternest  questions  to  her,  yet.  But  the  thought 
of  this  man — hard,  despairing,  defiant  with  the  recklessness  of  one  to 
whom  the  truth,  whatever  it  might  be  to  others,  seemed  only  a  re- 
lentless curse — this  thought,  this  utterance,  drew  forth  from  her 
irresistibly,  her  own,  thus,  in  her  first  close  scrutinizing  of  it, — in 
its  first  waking  to  a  conscious  strength, — demanded  of  her  instantly. 

"  I  can't  make  it  agree  with  what  Jesus  said,  himself,"  she  said, 
with  modest  reverence.  "  '  Not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground, 
without  your  Father.'  '  Ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows.' 
'  The  very  hairs  of  your  head  are  all  numbered.'  " 

"  It  don't  agree.  But  they're  both  alike  in  the  Bible,"  returned 
the  sailor  bluntly. 

"  '  Knowing,  brethren  beloved,  your  election  of  God,'  "  Say  re- 
peated thoughtfully.  It  had  been  the  morning's  text  "  It  made 
me  think, — just  his  reading  it,  and  the  few  sentences  he  said,  before 


248  The  Gayworthys. 

he  came  to  the  puzzling  part, — how  comforting  it  was.  That  every- 
body should  be  '  elected ' — to  their  own  particular  life,  and  death, 
and  all.  Not  forgotten ;  or  let  stumble  into  it  by  accident ;  but 
chosen.  And  I  suppose  the  noblest  souls — the  dearest  souls  to 
God — might  be  chosen  for  the  hardest.  The  best  men  in  the  ship 
are  chosen  for  the  hardest,  aren't  they,  Mr.  Blackmere  ?  " 

The  sailor  looked  full  at  her,  with  a  strange  light  sweeping  sud- 
denly over  his  face.  The  light  of  a  new,  gracious  thought,  gleam- 
ing up  across  confused  clouds  of  doubt.  There  was  doubt  there, 
still,  and  hardness  ;  but  they  were  shone  upon  unawares. 

"  And  the  trust — the  honor  of  it — makes  it  easy,  don't  it  ?  " 
Blackmere  looked  at  her  for  two  or  three  seconds  before  replying. 

"  If  I  could  think  a  thing  like  that ! "  he  exclaimed,  at  last.  "  I 
can  stand  taking  the  toughest,  when  somebody  must  take  it ;  I 
never  shirk  a  weather-earing ;  that's  what  I'm  cut  out  for;  but  a 
fellow's  spirit's  broke  by  hazing  ! " 

"  HE  doesn't  haze  !"  The  young  girl  spoke  it  with  an  awe,  a 
tenderness,  an  assurance.  Blackmere  stood  gazing  at  her  still ; 
his  own  look  melting. 

"  How  the  Bible-verses  come  up  and  explain  each  other,  when 
one  begins  to  think !  "  said  Say.  "  '  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  He 
chasteneth  ;  and  scourgeth  every  son  whom  He  receiveth.'  " 

The  words  fell  slow  and  musical  from  her  lips.  The  soul  of  the 
hard,  life-buffeted  man  caught  them  to  itself,  like  pearls. 

They  had  wandered  to  the  oldest,  most  secluded  part  of  the  ceme- 
tery. Down  the  sunshiny  slope  above  them,  came  now  Aunt 
Rebecca,  looking  for  Say.  The  girl  moved  up  to  join  her.  Black- 
mere  turned  away  abruptly,  passing  down  where  the  far,  shaded 
extremity  of  the  burial-place  joined  itself  to  the  natural  forest. 

"  I  have  had  such  a  strange  talk  with  Mr.  Blackmere,"  said  Say ; 
and  she  tried  to  tell  it  over  as  they  walked  up  toward  the  vestry 
door  at  the  back  of  the  old  meeting-house. 

"  '  Elected ! '  "  repeated  Blackmere  to  himself,  as  he  plunged 
along  the  rustling  woodpath,  unheeding  whither.  "  That's  a  new 
way  to  take  it ;  and  a  different  one  from  yonder  howling  doctrine. 
I  wonder  if  the  girl's  notion  is  right.  If  I  thought  the  tough  job 
had  been  set  me  by  Him  above,  there,  and  He  cared  how  I  came 
out,  I'd  face  it  in  a  way  that  wouldn't  shame  the  stuff  He's  made 
me  of.  I  could  put  a  heart  into  it !  But  it  never  looked  that  way 
to  me  afore  ;  and  how  should  she  know?  And  yet,  when  the  child 
riz  up  to  meet  me  so,  this  morning,  holding  out  her  hand  for  mine, 
it  seemed  somehow — I  don't  know  why — as  if  she'd  come  with  a 
gift  in  it ! " 


Life's  Word.  249 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

LIFE'S  WORD. 

PRUE  had  not  been  to  church.  Wealthy  went  home  when  the 
morning  service  was  ended.  With  her  unwontedly  large  house- 
hold, this  was  necessary.  There  was  a  plentiful  tea-dinner  to  be 
got  ready ;  and  Joanna  and  Rebecca  would  come  round  with  Say, 
after  meeting,  to  "  pick  up  her  things,"  and  take  her  home.  So  at 
least,  the  good  woman  had  requested,  and  expected.  But  matters 
turned  out  differently. 

The  fatigue  of  the  day  before, — the  exertion  she  had  already 
made  to-day, — the  excitement  of  her  talk  with  Blackmere, — began 
to  assert  themselves  with  Say.  Coming  up  again  in  the  face  of  the 
hot  summer  sun,  the  churchyard  slope,  her  head  began  to  throb, 
and  remind  her  with  fast-growing  pain  that  she  had  done  too 
much.  When  she  reached  the  vestry  just  vacated  by  the  Sunday 
School  children,  out  now  for  their  short  "nooning,"  she  seated 
herself  languidly  upon  a  bench,  and  her  face  suddenly  lost  its  light, 
and  her  eyes  contracted  themselves. 

"  I  believe  I'm  tired  out,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  I've 
just  discovered  it ;  but  I  really  am.  I  wish  I  could  get  home, — to 
Cousin  Wealthy's  I  mean." 

The  child  remembered  her  treasure  of  rag  and  wreck,  and  would 
rather  secure  it  with  her  own  hands,  silently. 

"  I  should  be  nicely  rested  by  the  time  you  came.  Could  Landy 
drive  me,  before  meeting  ?  " 

To  be  sure,  Landy  could ;  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell,  recalling 
the  worshippers,  came  after  them  on  the  air,  as,  round  by  the 
Deepwater  road,  Say  and  her  e*scort  reached  the  bar-place  into  the 
back  pasture  under  Hoogs's  hill. 

"You  needn't  come  any  farther,"  said  Say,  laying  her  hand  on 
the  reins.  "  I'd  rather  get  out  here,  and  walk  up." 

She  wanted  to  go  quietly  into  the  house  and  reach  her  room,  if 
possible,  unobserved,  to  get  an  hour's  rest  before  they  should  know 
she  had  come  back.  So  she  checked  the  horse,  peremptorily  :  and 
sprung  out  lightly  over  the  thills.  Landy,  a  slow  fellow,  had  only 
time  to  get  as  far  as  "  he'd  just  as  lieves  " — when  Say  was  through 
the  bar-place,  and  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  road. 

"  She's  a  whisker,  I  vum  !  "  he  ejaculated ;  and  turned  his  horse's 
head  Zionward  again. 

The  path  through  the  back  pasture  wound  up  along  the  side- 
hill,  and  came  round  under  the  dairy  windows,  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,  and  so,  still  further  around  its  end  to  the  square  platform 
in  the  front  angle.  Against  the  building,  at  this  projecting  end, 
Jaazaniah  had  built,  long  ago,  a  rude  bench,  sitting  upon  which 


250  The  Gayworthys. 

one  could  get  the  southerly  breeze  that  came  up  among  the  pines, 
and,  also  the  fair,  wild,  southerly  view,  through  openings  down  the 
hillside  to  the  gleam  of  the  pond,  Just  over  this  rough  seat,  was 
the  window  by  which  he  had  lain  in  his  long  illness,  taking  in,  for 
all  joy  and  comfort,  the  sunshine  and  watershine,  the  shadow  and 
fragrance  and  song  whereto  it  gave  blessed  aspect  and  entrance. 

Say  got  thus  far  and  paused.  Because  she  was  tired,  and  the 
head  beat  with  a  new  aching,  and  it  was  soothing  here  in  the 
shade.  Because  also  she  heard  voices  in  the  angle,  and  waited  ;  if 
by  any  chance  she  might  yet  pass  in  unseen. 

They  were  the  voices  of  Cousin  Wealthy  and  Gershom  Vorse ; 
and  these  words  came  first  distinctly  to  her  ear. 

"  It's  all  a  queer  mixing  up  of  things,  to  me.  That  girl  talked, 
yesterday,  upon  the  mountain,  about  God  ;  with  a  look  in  her  face 
as  if  she  felt  Him  ;  and  to-day,  she  had  on  her  little  dainty  airs 
and  smiles  again ;  and  must  go  to  meeting  in  starched  muslin ! 
It's  a  curious  world." 

"  The  world's  well  enough,  Gershom  Vorse.  And  what's  more, 
if  it  wasn't,  you're  in  it,  and  part  and  parcel  of  it,  queerness  and 
all !  You  can't  stand  off,  and  look  down  upon  it,  and  judge  it. 
There's  only  One  can  do  that.  And  He  don't.  He  came  down 
amongst  us.  You're  hard  upon  the  world,  Gershom  ;  and  you're 
hard  upon  that  child.  She  mayn't  be  clear  wisdom  and  perfec- 
tion ;  but  she's  a  bright,  loving  little  thing  ;  and  she  sets  by  you  as 
she  does  by  her  life.  Only  think  ;  she  never  had  an  own  brother  ; 
nor  even  a  sister." 

The  woman  instinct  and  esprit  du  corps  it  was  that  put  in  that, 
and  the  child,  listening,  blessed  her  for  it :  blessed  her,  while  her 
cheeks  flamed  and  her  hot  brow  throbbed  more  wildly,  and  a 
strange  shimmer  of  light  seemed  to  show  her,  suddenly,  a  place  in 
her  own  heart  that  she  had  never  looked  into  before. 

"  You  must  take  love  as  you  get  it,— ore  or  nuggets, — and  be 
thankful,  or  go  without.  The  Lord  never  sends  it  for  nothing,  and 
however  it  comes,  it's  a  piece  of  His  own.  Sarah  Gair  has  grown 
up  with  you  in  her  very  heart,  and  it's  a  cruel  way  you  take  with 
her,  slighting  and  faultfinding  and  watching  and  carping.  I've 
ached  to  tell  you  so,  and  now  I've  done  it." 

"  I  like  Say  ;  I  always  did  ;  but  she's  had  a  poor  bringing  up." 

"  That  ain't  her  fault,  and  I  can't  see  as  it's  done  her  so  very 
much  harm.  I'm  an  old  woman,  Gershom,  and  I  know  what 
things  are  worth.  I'll  tell  you  something  about  myself.  I  didn't 
always  take  things  right  end  foremost.  I  had  a  way  once  of  twist- 
ing 'em  about  and  looking  'em  over,  to  find  specks  in  'em.  I  kept 
Jaazaniah  off  and  on  as  long  as  his  mother  lived.  It  didn't  seem 
to  me  always  he  was  right  up  to  the  mark  in  everything,  as  I 
wished  he  was.  Well,  when  she  died  of  course  I  couldn't  go  on 
staying  here  alone  with  him,  so  I  packed  up  and  went  off,  and  lived 
along  of  Mrs.  Gibson  for  more'n  a  year;  and  all  that  time  he  was 


Life's  Word.  251 

after  me,  and  I  was  considering.  I  couldn't  give  him  quite  up. 
There  wasn't  as  much  more  love  left  for  me  in  the  whole  world  as 
there  was  in  that  great  clumsy  honest  heart  of  his.  Sometimes  I'd 
as  good  as  made  up  my  mind,  and  then  he'd  go  and  say  or  do 
something,  or  not  do  it,  that  would  just  upset  the  whole  calabash, 
and  I'd  have  to  begin  all  over  again,  persuading  myself.  But  I 
never  stopped  spinning  and  weaving  my  piles  of  house  linen,  for 
all  that  ;  if  I'd  only  known,  myself,  what  I  meant  by  it.  The 
thing  that  made  me  Grossest  was  that  he  never  took  up  spirit  to 
answer  me  back  in  my  own  way,  but  just  give  in  to  all  my  tempers 
and  impudence,  when  half  the  time  the  things  I  said  were  just  to 
put  the  very  words  in  his  mouth  that  he  ought  to  have  said  back, 
and  if  he  had,  would  have  made  me  feel  a  sight  better.  One  day 
he'd  been  a  pleading  and  I'd  been  a  hectoring,  and  finally  I  just 
burst  out  at  him.  '  Jaazaniah  Hoogs  ! '  said  I,  '  you  haven't  got 
the  character  of  a  fly  !  I  do  wish  there  was  more  to  you.'  Of  all 
the  looks  I  ever  see  in  a  human  face,  his  was  the  grievedest  then, 
and  the  most  humble  ;  and  yet  in  a  kind  of  a  way,  it  was  the 
grandest.  There  wasn't  a  particle  of  blame  or  anger  in  it,  but  a 
great,  sorrowful,  patient  enduring.  '  Wealthy,'  says  he,  and  his 
\vords  didn't  sound  mean  nor  shuffling,  but  real  manly  and  gentle, 
— '  I  know  there  ain't  much  to  me.  I  wish  there  was  a  great  deal 
more  for  your  sake ;  but  you've  got  all  there  is  ! '  I  took  him  then, 
for  he  belonged  to  me,  and  I've  known  ever  since  that  we  belonged 
together.  We  belong  together  yet." 

Wealthy's  voice  shook  a  little,  but  her  words  were  clear  as  her 
faith  was  strong. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  silent.  A  minute  after,  Cousin  Wealthy 
walked  away  into  the  house  to  lay  by  her  Sunday  things,  and  find 
Prue.  Gershom  lingered  a  little,  and  then  his  firm  quarter-deck 
tread  was  heard  across  the  platform  and  down  the  rocky  path 
toward  the  great  barn. 

Sarah  Gair  was  left  alone. 

She  sat  there  in  helpless  pain ;  a  pain  of  body,  and  an  ache  and 
shame  and  confusion  of  soul.  She  knew,  by  that  shame  and  con- 
tusion, that  the  love  she  had  called  sisterly,  when  she  looked  at  it 
to  call  it  anything,  was  more  and  different.  She  had  "  grown  up 
with  him  in  her  very  heart "  ;  no  love  now,  could  ever  come  closer. 
Her  pride,  her  joy,  her  glory,  her  claim  in  him — she  had  never  felt 
these — she  knew  she  never  should  feel  them  for  any  other.  He 
had  held  the  place  in  her  thought — in  her  dreams,  that  but  one 
can  truly  fill,  and  once,  for  any  woman,  whatever  semblance  may 
come  after.  His  approval  was  gladness ;  his  blame  was  suffering. 

And  he — "  liked  her;  had  always  liked  her";  that  was  all. 

And  Cousin  Wealthy  had  stood  and  pleaded  for  her !  Oh,  it 
was  bitter  shame, — pain  unendurable ! 

Notwithstanding  those  saving  words, — that  hint  at  brotherhood, 
— what,  to  his  quick  apprehension,  his  merciless  insight,  could  it 


252  The  Gayworthys. 

all  mean, — that  story  of  Wealthy's  own  love  that  had  been  the  one 
love  of  her  life — and  its  comparison  with  hers — what  else  but  this, 
that  every  drop  in  her  veins  tingled  to  think  of  ? 

She  was  self-convicted.  She  could  never  shut  her  eyes  to  it 
again.  She  knew  now  what  she  had  meant  to  do  in  cherishing 
those  shreds  up-stairs,  that  she  had  rolled  together  and  hidden 
away  in  the  deep  closet  corner,  lest  any  one  should  meddle.  They 
might  lie  there  now ;  she  would  never  touch  them. 

"  He  liked  her  ;  but  she  had  been  ill  brought  up."  He  did  not 
approve  ;  he  pitied,  he  was  tolerant  of  her. 

She  had  not  suffered  all  that  was  set  for  her  to  bear,  this  day. 

While  these  sensations,  that  were  hardly  thoughts,  yet  rent  her, 
in  her  helplessness,  a  sound  of  spoken  words  reached  her  once 
again. 

She  was  directly  under  Wealthy's  bedroom  window.  Against  it 
inside  stood  the  bed.  Wealthy  approached,  to  lay  her  bonnet  and 
shawl  there ;  Say  knew  her  habits,  and  understood  the  sound  of 
every  movement.  At  the  same  time  she  began  talking ;  to  Prue. 

"  I've  been  saying  something  to  that  boy  of  yours,  that's  done 
me  good.  He's  a  noble-hearted  fellow ;  but  there's  other  hearts 
in  the  world,  as  well  as  his;  and  he's  hard  ;  and  I've  told  him  so." 

"  He's  true,"  answered  the  mother.  "  Truth  may  be  hard,  some- 
times ;  but  he  can't  help  that." 

"  Yes,  he  can  ; "  persisted  Wealthy.  "  Or,  if  he  can't,  I  don't 
know  but  I'd  as  lieves  he'd  lie  a  little,  now  and  then  !  He's  cruel 
to  that  child.  In  his  thoughts  and  in  his  ways." 

Say's  hands  flew  up,  to  stop  her  ears  from  further  listening. 
She  could  not  get  up  and  go  into  the  house.  She  could  not  stay 
there  now.  She  must  steal  away  presently,  when  they  were  out  of 
hearing,  and  go  home ;  and  they  must  never  know  that  she  had 
been  there.  She  lifted  her  hands  to  the  two  sides  of  her  head. 
But  she  had  no  power  to  fasten  them  there.  Words  came  that 
compelled  her  to  hear  on.  One  may  refrain  from  deliberate  heark- 
ening to  what  is  not  meant  for  one's  knowledge  ;  but  there  is  a 
momentary  incapacity  to  resist  what  comes  to  one,  unsought,  seiz- 
ing one's  very  life,  and  piercing  it,  as  this  did  Say's. 

"  I  suppose  I  might  be  half  an  hour  pretending  to  try  and  find  out 
what  you  mean,  Wealthy  Hoogs,"  said  Prudence  Vorse,  in  her 
strong  tones.  "  But  that  isn't  my  way.  I  see  it  plain  enough.  As 
plain  as  you  do.  And  to  that,  there  's  just  one  answer,  in  his 
mind  and  mine  too.  She's  Jane  Gair's  child." 

"  She's  a  Gayworthy." 

"  The  best  blood  may  be  spoilt  by  a  bad  cross.  She's  a. 
Symonds  :  Hannah  Symonds's  grandchild  ;  and  the  mother's  clear 
Symonds,  without  the  first  redeeming  particle  !  " 

"I  don't  think  much  of  Jane,  myself;  but  you're  very  hard, 
Prue." 

"  I  might  be  harder.     If  I  called  that  woman  to  a  strict  account." 


Life's  Word.  253 

"  Doubtful  undertaking.     She's  a  manager." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Prue,  with  a  peculiar  deliberation  and  quiet- 
ness. "  She's  a  manager.  She's  managed  my  boy  out  of  his  home 
and  away  from  me.  By  a  lie,  and  a  hiding.  She's  managed  him 
into  a  rough,  dangerous,  distasteful  life.  She  managed  her  good 
father  into  his  grave.  And — what  with  prying  and  poking,  and 
concealing — it's  my  belief  she's  managed  more.  It  wouldn't  want 
much  ferreting  maybe,  to  find  the  rights  of  it.  But  I  shan't  take 
up  the  job.  I'll  leave  her  sin  to  find  her  out." 

"  You  never  speak  without  a  reason,  Prue.  And  yet  you  never 
spoke  of  this  before." 

"  I  haven't  been  touched  so  near  the  quick  before.  It  isn't  a  thing 
that'll  be  ever  made  plain  in  this  world,  most  likely ;  but  if  that 
woman  had  a  clear,  honest  mind  when  her  father  lay  a  dying,  and 
that  day  afterward  when  we  all  sat  together,  while  Reuben  Gair 
looked  over  the  papers  that  nobody  ever  touched — rightly — before, 
but  the  Doctor,  and  read  that  will — why,  then  an  angel  of  heaven 
might  wear  Satan's  own  colors — that's  all !  " 

"  These  are  hard  things, — hard  things,  Prue,"  Wealthy  repeated. 
"  And  it  was  a  hard  time  to  judge  her." 

"  She  went  round  with  a  hard  face,  Wealthy,  all  those  days. 
There  was  nothing  soft  or  grieving ;  anxious  enough — too  anx- 
ious looking ;  in  a  strange,  absent  kind  of  a  way,  a  sort  of  still 
flurry,  as  if  she'd  something  on  her  mind.  Her  father  had  a  talk 
with  her ;  and  what  it  was,  lies  between  her  and  the  dead.  I  know 
she  kept  back  something.  And  before  Reuben  laid  his  finger  on 
the  will,  that  night,  she  started,  and  her  look  changed.  She  knew 
that  he  was  coming  to  it.  And  she  knew  she  had  no  business  with 
her  knowledge.  She's  false,  and  sly ;  but  she  isn't  deep.  I  read 
her  face  ;  and  it  was  the  face  of  one  who  should  never  be  a  mother 
to  my  boy  ! " 

Say  put  her  hands  to  her  ears,  now,  in  an  agony  ;  she  had  been 
spellbound,  to  this  point ;  but  she  could  hear  no  more.  The  im- 
pulse that  would  have  been  a  shriek  if  it  had  dared,  brought  her 
to  her  feet,  with  her  hands  held  tightly,  so,  against  her  head ;  and 
she  flew,  with  steps  noiseless,  though  headlong,  down  the  hillside 
path  that  opened  before  her,  between  the  pine  trees,  toward  the 
Pond. 

To  get  away, — from  this  house  of  her  friends  where  she  had 
been  wounded, — to  escape  all  sight  of  them, — to  reach,  somehow, 
in  this  bewildering  pain  that  held  her  more  and  more  fiercely, — a 
place  where  she  could  rest,  and  be  alone  ;  this  impelled  her  desper- 
ately. 

She  followed  the  path  around  the  margin  of  the  pond.  Through 
the  perfumed  summer  woods  ;  along  by  the  still,  plashing  water, 
that  throbbed  up  upon  the  pebbles ;  the  nameless  fragrance  drift- 
ing over,  or  with  it,  that  comes  upon  the  freshened  air  wherever 
sweet  water  flows  ;  with  the  blue,  cloud-flecked  sky  bending  down 


254  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

and  repeating  itself  as  of  old  ;  all  this  was  as  it  had  been  in  her 
childhood,  when  in  these  things  lay  sufficient  joy ;  and  the  stricken 
woman  passed  them  by. 

"  Elected  !  Elected  ! "  The  word  kept  ringing  itself  over  to 
her  inward  ear.  Now,  she  was  beginning  to  know  whereto.  To 
this,  and  to  no  other  thing.  Her  pain  was  upon  her ;  her  own 
separate  allotment  that  was  like  no  other  soul's  on  earth. 

Where  was  Gershom  Vorse  ? 

"  I  like  Say ;  I  have  always  liked  her ; "  this  was  the  most  he 
had  had  to  say  to  Wealthy's  urgent,  unsparing  remonstrance.  He 
said  it  quietly ;  almost  coldly  ,  then  he  listened  without  a  word 
to  all  the  rest  she  had  to  say ;  took  in  silently  the  simple  pathos 
of  her  story  of  the  one  love  God  had  sent  into  her  life ;  and  when 
she  left  him,  turned  and  went  his  way. 

To  suffer  too.  In  his  strong,  terrible,  restrained,  man's  way. 
For  he  knew  now,  likewise,  what  that  "  liking "  was ;  something 
grown  up  with  him  into  his  forceful  nature,  as  Say's  thought  of 
him  in  her  "very  heart."  What  God  hath  joined  together,  man 
may  not  put  asunder. 

Man  will  try,  though.  Man  will  let  his  pride,  and  prejudice, 
and  hate,  stand  between  him  and  his  love,  making  a  fight  of  it  all 
his  life  long.  "  I  will  never  forgive  Aunt  Jane  for  this,"  had  been 
his  uttered  resolve.  "  I  will  not  believe  in — I  will  not  care  for — 
Jane  Gair's  child,"  had  been  his  secret  unworded  self-reiteration. 

He  stood  in  the  great,  open,  west  doorway  of  Cousin  Wealthy's 
barn.  He  lifted  his  arms  and  leaned  them  upon  the  wooden  bar 
across  it ;  holding  his  head  down.  There  was  a  working  in  his 
face.  It  would  have  been  a  shedding  of  bitter  tears  perhaps,  with 
a  woman ;  with  this  man,  it  was  a  swelling  of  every  vein  ;  a  draw- 
ing of  every  cord ;  a  red  streak  shooting  athwart  the  eyeball ;  a 
setting  the  firm  teeth  tight  together. 

"This,  too,  my  enemy  has  done!"  was  the  feeling  in  him. 
"All  the  rest  was  not  enough,  but  I  must  feel  her  even  here! 
I  must  love ,  and  it  must  be  her  child !  I  was  content  to  go 
through  the  world  untrusting,  expecting  nothing ;  when  she  had 
killed  my  boy-trust,  and  sent  me  out  among  the  hard,  hateful 
things  of  life ;  but  I  must  bear  this  after  all!  I  must  love  that 
child  and  long  for  her ;  for  her  who  has  that  lying  blood  in  her 
veins  ;  whom  I  will  not  take  to  my  bosom  :  whom  if  I  would,  I 
have  been  set  apart  from  forever,  in  my  coarse,  mean,  struggling 
life.  A  poor  sailor, — son  of  a  widow  ;  and  she  the  rich  merchant's 
only  child !  This,  too,  my  enemy  has  done ! — I  have  fought  against 
it  without  looking  at  it ;  now  I  must  grapple  it  face  to  face.  '  She 
sets  by  you  as  she  does  by  her  life.'  Why  did  Wealthy  say  that  ? 
Why  did  my  head  whirl  when  she  said  it  ?  Slighting,  and  fault- 
finding ;  watching,  and  carping ; '  yes,  I  have  done  all  that ;  I 
would  never  let  myself  see  how  I  loved  her ;  thank  God  I  never  let 
her  see  ! — Now,  I've  got  this  thing  to  do ;  to  get  through  the  world 


Life's  Word.  255 

with  this  wind  in  my  teeth  ;  to  set  my  face  against  it  and  take  it ! 
—Oh,  Say!  Say!"' 

The  proud,  stern,  distrustful  spirit  groaned  out  its  anguish  in 
one  deep,  half-smothered  moan. 

Then  he  gathered  himself  up  and  strode  away ;  as  men  stride, 
when  they  would  hurry  away  from  a  passion. 

Down  over  the  rocks,  into  the  deet  woods  ;  parallel  to  the  very 
way  Say  was  taking ;  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  underbrush  between 
them  ;  God  knows  what  impassableness  between  their  two,  suffer- 
ing hearts ! 

An  hour  after,  Say  lay  upon  her  bed  in  the  red-room  ;  the  cur- 
tains drawn,  and  both  doors  bolted.  She  cried  out  all  her  tears ; 
she  spent  herself  in  an  ecstasy  of  shame  and  misery  ;  then,  at  last, 
she  sobbed  slow  and  gently,  with  a  self-pitiful  heart-break. 

"  He  will  know  me  better,  sometime ;  in  heaven,  maybe.  And 
perhaps  God  will  let  me  live  to  do  something  true  and  generous 
by  him,  yet,  in  this  world.  Something  to  make  up, — oh,  if  I  knew  ! 
Oh,  mother  !  mother  !  " 

When  Rebecca  came  home,  hastening  directly,  when  she  learned 
Say  had  not  been  at  Wealthy's,  she  found  the  doors  fast,  and  the 
room  silent.  The  child  had  fallen  asleep.  Rebecca  went  away, 
and  waited.  By  and  by,  she  tried  again.  Still  fast ;  no  sound. 
She  went  round  through  what  had  been  her  father's  room,  and 
pushed  away,  there,  a  chest  of  drawers,  that  stood  against  a  rarely 
used  door,  It  opened  into  the  narrow  closet,  running  between 
this  and  the  red-room.  By  this  way,  she  entered,  quietly,  and 
went  and  drew  the  curtain  softly  aside  from  the  bed.  There  was 
a  crimson  face,  and  tangled  hair,  upon  the  pillows ;  the  chamber 
hot  and  close.  Rebecca  flung  the  curtains  wide,  unlocked  the 
entry  door  and  set  it  open ;  then  lifted  the  opposite  window  and 
threw  back  the  blinds. 

The  air,  the  movement,  wakened  Say ;  she  turned  and  opened 
two  swollen,  glassy,  feverish  eyes.  She  lifted  herself  suddenly  to 
her  elbow,  and  glanced  round,  as  if  bewildered. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  faintly,  with  a  half-remembrance.  "  I 
came  home.  My — election — oh,  auntie  !  my — head,  I  mean — was 
so  bad.  I  couldn't  stop.  I  came  round  by  the  Pond." 

She  shivered  a  little,  in  the  draught  of  the  fresh  air.  Her  eyes 
looked  vague  and  troubled. 

"  Would  you  just — fold  up — that  tombstone  ?  Oh,  dear,  what 
ails  me  ?  Shut  it  up — the  door — I  mean." 

Say  was  in  the  first  stage  of  violent  fever. 

All  through  the  beautiful  July  days,  when  the  haymakers  were 
in  the  fields ;  through  the  calm,  starry  nights,  when  the  dew  was 
rich  with  perfume ;  while  all  over  the  hills  and  woods  was  the 
gladness  of  the  country  summer-time, — Say  lay  there,  suffering  in 
the  grasp  of  disease.  Her  father  and  her  mother  came  to  Hilbury ; 
Jane  Gair  was  forced  to  it,  now,  and  only  her  own  heart  and  con- 


256  The  Gayworthys. 

science  could  tell  the  scourge  of  punishment  that  mingled  secretly 
with  her  natural  pain.  Ned  Blackmere  said,  when  they  talked  of 
Say's  illness, — "  She'll  die  ;  she's  one  of  the  real  ones,  and  they  go 
to  heaven."  Gershom  Vorse  kept  his  misery  within  himself,  say- 
ing and  asking  little  ;  but  they  knew,  daily  and  nightly,  at  the  hill- 
farm,  how  it  was  at  the  homestead  ;  for  Blackmere  took  it  upon 
himself  to  go  to  and  fro,  bearing  the  tidings ;  and  a  letter  that 
came  from  Selport,  offering  Gershom  command  of  a  brig  upon  an 
African  voyage,  to  sail  at  four  days'  notice,  was  quietly  answered, 
destroyed,  and  never  spoken  of.  He  waited. 

Three  weeks  of  fevered  pain  and  clouded  consciousness ;  and 
then  the  tide  turned,  tremblingly,  almost  imperceptibly,  toward 
life  again. 

Mr.  Gair  went  back  to  his  business ;  Jane  was  in  a  hurry,  as 
soon  as  Say  could  bear  it,  to  get  her  to  the  sea-shore ;  Gershom 
Vorse  went  down  to  Selport,  and  got  a  berth  for  himself  and 
Blackmere ;  taking  a  voyage  to  Cronstadt ;  Say  sat  in  the  great 
easy-chair,  or  lay  tired  and  feeble  on  her  bed  ;  and  let  her  life 
come  slowly  back  to  her.  A  comfort  came,  also  ;  came  with  the 
one  word  that  had  been  given  her,  for  a  purpose, — that  had  rung 
in  her  memory  through  the  first  bewilderment  of  her  brain, — 
"elected — elected!"  She  could  bear  what  she  had  been  chosen 
to  bear.  With  this  grain  of  mustard-seed,  the  whole  kingdom 
came  to  bloom  in  her  soul.  It  was  her  first  childlike  creeping  close 
into  the  bosom  of  the  Father.  She  had  known  that  He  was  ;  she 
had  believed  His  truth  given  to  the  world,  and  taught  her  through 
others.  Now,  she  found  Him,  felt  Him,  as  she  never  had  before. 
She  was  "as  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth."  Her  bodily  state 
helped  this ;  with  exhaustion  comes  a  peace  ;  it  is  when  we  are 
strong,  that  we  can  suffer  keenest. 

Gershom  came  to  say  good-by. 

"  Shall  I  let  him  come  up  ?  "  said  Aunt  Joanna.  "  Are  you  well 
enough  to-day  ?  " 

A  pink  tinge  came  to  the  pale  face.  She  caught  her  breath  a 
little  quickly  ;  then  she  said  quietly,  "  yes." 

This  also,  she  must  bear. 

There  was  no  disdain  of  her  pretty  daintiness,  now.  Gershom's 
face  was  very  gentle  as  he  approached  her,  sitting  there  in  the 
warm,  open  window,  with  roses  on  the  sill,  and  some  especially 
sweet,  late  buds  lying  on  the  lap  of  her  white-frilled  wrapper,  con- 
trasting delicately  in  their  pink  and  green,  with  the  soft,  pure  mus- 
lin. The  offending  little  foot  was  thrust  out,  too,  unconsciously, 
upon  its  cushion,  slippered  with  blue  and  golden  brown,  in  em- 
broidery of  silk  and  satiny  kid  ;  but  he  saw  only  the  kind,  calm 
eyes  that  looked  up,  meeting  his ;  and  the  white  hand  grown  so 
slender,  that  reached  itself  out  toward  him. 

There  was  a  change  in  her  beside  the  changes  of  her  illness. 

There  was  a  quietude,  a  repose,  that  was  not  all  of  feebleness. 


Life's  Word.  257 

She  recognized  it  in  herself.  She  would  never  be  abashed  at  him 
again  ;  she  would  never  be  in  a  flurry  lest  she  should  displease 
him  ;  all  that  was  laid  at  rest ;  she  had  faced  the  truth  ;  she  had 
borne  its  life-thrust ;  and  the  touch  of  truth  had  set  her  free.  She 
knew  now  what  lay  between  them  ;  she  thought  she  knew  what  he 
had  given  her  ;  a  "  liking,"  merely  ;  and  a  sort  of  pity  ;  he  should 
give  her  more — respect. 

"  You've  had  a  hard  time,  Say,"  he  said,  as  he  came  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"  But  it  is  very  pleasant  getting  well." 

It  seemed  to  the  stout  sailor,  looking  at  her  as  she  sat  there  that 
the  getting  well  had  not  been  very  rapid. 

"  Blackmere  sent  you  these."  A  basket  of  mountain  raspberries, 
that  Gershom  held  in  his  left  hand. 

"Mr.  Blackmere  is  very  kind.  Tell  him,  please,  how  much  I 
thank  him." 

"  You've  won  him  over,  however  you  managed  it,"  said  Gershom, 
lightly.  It  was  hard  for  him  this  meeting  and  this  good-by;  he 
must  get  through  it  as  he  could. 

A  little  touch  upon  the  secret  misery  made  Say  wince. 

"  I  don't  manage"  she  said  with  emphasis.  "  I'm  glad  if  he 
likes  me.  I  like  him  very  much.  He's  a  good,  brave,  generous 
man.  And — "  she  stopped.  She  had  been  very  near  saying,  with 
the  old  impulse,  "  and  he's  your  friend,  Gershie." 

"  And — what  ?  "  said  Captain  Vorse. 

"  I  should  know  it  from  what  you  think  of  him,  if  I  couldn't  see 
it  myself.  You're  hard  to  please,  you  know,  Gershom." 

"  Am  I  ?     I've  had  hard  luck  sometimes,"  the  sailor  answered. 

This  was  coming  closer  though  than  either  wished. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  better,  Say.  And  I'm  glad  to  know  it  before 
I  go.  I've  come  to  say  good-by.  I'm  going  up  the  Baltic.'' 

Say  spoke  not  a  word.  She  knew  that  parting  now,  they  were 
to  part  for  years,  for  all,  perhaps.  She  knew  it  would  be  long  be- 
fore she  should  have  another  summer  in  Hilbury  ;  their  chances 
might  never  coincide  again ;  and  Gershom  never  came  to  Hill 
Street ;  she  could  no  longer  wonder  why,  or  ask  it  of  him. 

All  this  was  best  so ;  still  she  could  not  speak. 

"  You  look  very  sober,  Say.  Give  me  one  of  your  good  words, 
to  go  with."  He  spoke  with  that  forced  lightness,  still ;  the  strong 
man's  pain  clutching  secretly  at  his  heart,  also. 

Then  Say  looked  up.  She  had  a  word  for  him.  A  word  she  had 
thought  to  send  him,  if  she  should  be  going  to  die,  when  she  came 
out  of  that  confusion  and  wandering  into  the  consciousness  that 
life  hung  trembling  and  uncertain  ;  when  she  knew  as  well  as  those 
around  her,  that  the  last  might  soon  come ;  when  she  read  her 
mother's  look,  that  bent  over  her  in  an  agony ;  when  her  father's 
presence  at  her  bedside  told  the  why  ;  when  she  saw  in  the  tender, 
wistful,  saddened  eyes  of  the  kind  aunts,  their  fear  for  her ;  when 


258  The  Gayworthys. 

her  life,  and  all  the  love  and  hope,  and  pain  of  it,  lay  on  one  side, 
and  Death  stood  waiting,  close,  upon  the  other  ;  and  in  the  twilight 
between  the  worlds,  she  saw  things  as  they  only  see  them  who  go 
down  into  the  very  shadow  of  the  sunless  gloom,  and  stand  with 
feet  in  the  very  wave-break  of  the  dark  sea,  and  thence — look 
backward  ! 

She  had  a  word  for  him.  She  would  give  it,  now.  A  brightness 
came  into  her  face  ;  an  earnest  self-forgetfulness.  She  put  her 
hand  out  again  and  he  took  it. 

"  God  was  in  the  pain,  also,  Gershom  ! " 

He  knew  in  his  soul  that  she  was  pure  and  true.  He  knew  in 
his  soul  that  he  loved  her.  He  knew  that  his  very  hold  upon 
heaven  lay  with  her.  A  strange  look  glowed  in  his  eyes,  for 
a  moment,  as  he  stood  over  her,  her  hand  in  his.  That  which 
was  in  him  stirred  mightily,  and  trembled  on  the  breath  of  an 
avowal. 

Then  there  came  steps  upon  the  stairs,  and  a  voice.  Aunt 
Jane's. 

His  secret  went  back  into  his  soul  again. 

They  said  good-by,  and  he  went  away. 

Threads  cross,  and  break,  and  entangle  ;  the  pattern  runs  awry. 
Yet,  God's  Eye  Is  over  the  loom ;  His  Finger  is  upon  the 
wheels  ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DRIFTING    APART. 

IT  began  to  come  to  her  now.  Now  that  she  no  longer  cared 
for  it,  or  distressed  herself  for  the  want  of  it.  Now  that  the  smile 
or  stare  of  these  fashionable  girls,  or  their  mothers  differed  little  to 
her ;  now  that  even  Jane  Gair  in  her  real  solicitude,  had  forgotten 
for  awhile  her  petty  fussiness  and  obtrusive  ambition, — it  all  began 
with  the  waywardness  of  things  striven  for  and  given  up,  to  come, 
in  a  degree,  of  its  own  accord. 

They  were  at  the  sea-shore  until  October.  Mr.  Gair  brought  his 
carriage  down  from  the  city.  What  he  had  refused  to  do  for  dis- 
play,— taking  his  sensible  business  view  of  things, — he  did  for  the 
comfort  of  his  child.  Say  had  her  own  way  now  ;  and  Mrs.  Gair's 
great  object  was  her  daughter's  health.  So  they  were  simple  and 
straightforward,  minding  their  own  business,  for  awhile.  And 
people  who  would  not  have  perceived  them,  arrayed  elaborately,  and 
presenting  themselves,  as  had  been  Jane's  fashion,  without  ap- 
parent immediate  object  other  than  expressed  by  that  unmistak- 
able air  of  "  Here  I  am,"  in  the  piazzas  and  drawing-rooms  ;  who 
gave  short,  surprised,  civil  answers  to  her  overtures  at  conversa- 
tion, and  turned  away ;  who  had  kept  her,  in  short,  behind  their 


Drifting  Apart.  259 

elbows  always  ;  these  people  began  to  glance  after  the  pale  girl 
and  her  mother  now,  with  a  certain  interest ;  had  a  word  of  in- 
quiry when  they  met  them  in  the  doorway,  just  alighted  from  their 
drive  ;  a  word  and  a  smile  even,  when  they  encountered  upon  the 
beach. 

Mrs.  Topliff  discerned  through  her  eyeglasses,  "  that  there  was 
something  really  quite  distinguished  about  that  Miss  Gair ;  the 
mother  was  common  enough,  no  doubt,  but  the  girl's  face  and  air 
were  positively  striking."  It  was  simply  that  Say's  face  wore  its 
own  quiet  look  of  thought  and  preoccupation,  now ;  she  had  a 
life  to  live  of  her  own  ;  a  life  that  took  her  strength  to  do  it ;  she 
had  no  seeking,  distraite  expression  of  one  trying,  as  she  had 
said,  "  to  get  into  other  people's  lives."  And  her  natural  elegance 
sat  on  her,  so,  unconsciously. 

Mrs.  Topliff  had  a  comfortable  sheltered  seat  beside  herself,  now 
and  then,  when  the  child  came  out,  at  sunset,  to  the  piazza.  Room 
for  one  only,  and  she  would  patronizingly  beckon  Say  ;  Mrs.  Gair 
found  a  place  as  she  pleased,  for  herself.  Mrs.  Topliff  drove  an  open 
English  brett ;  one  fine  September  day  she  offered  Say  a  seat  in  it ; 
took  excellent  care  of  her  during  the  drive,  and  even  remarked  with 
a  polite  kindness,  to  the  eager  mother  meeting  them  on  the  steps 
at  their  return,  proud  to  claim  her  daughter  out  of  the  stylish  lady's 
carriage,  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  standers-by,  that  "  Miss  Gair  had 
got  a  little  color  in  her  cheeks."  Whereon  Jane  went  into  an 
ecstasy  of  profuse  thanks  and  familiar  volubility  ;  taking  her  ell  in 
a  great  hurry,  where  but  the  brief  inch  had  been  accorded.  Mrs. 
Topliff  cut  her  very  short,  in  a  twinkling ;  had  a  sudden  word  for 
her  coachman  ;  and  Jane  was  behind  her  elbow  again,  before  she 
quite  guessed  at  it ;  alone,  presently,  midway  down  the  steps. 

She  was  used  to  it ;  she  was  thankful  for  the  little  she  got ;  to 
this  abjectness  had  she  come, — this  absolute  vulgarity  of  soul, 
through  patient  truckling  to  the  vulgar  airs  of  those  whom  she  mis- 
takenly believed  to  be  great  people. 

There  was  a  quiet  room  on  the  same  floor  with  themselves,  into 
which  Say  was  sometimes  invited,  where  she  felt  herself  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  truer  elegance  and  refinement  than  within  the  charmed 
circle  of  the  "  Topliff  set "  when  they  sanctified,  for  a  brief  half  hour, 
a  certain  piazza  corner, — mere  boards  and  railing,  when  the  spell 
was  off,  and  open  to  any  common  comer, — or  than  even  tucked 
cosily  between  the  sumptuous  cushions  and  blankets  of  the  brett, 
driving  t£te-d.-t£te  with  its  august  owner. 

It  was  the  room  of  an  elderly  lady, — a  widow, — and  her  maiden 
sister ;  persons  necessarily,  not  of  the  gay  set ;  but  indisputably 
above  the  prevailing  tone  of  it,  and  deferred  to,  in  position,  by 
people  of  that  or  of  any  set  whatever.  There  are  individuals  like 
these,  who  make  their  own  genus.  Say  was  happier  here,  among 
their  books  and  pictures,  their  gatherings  of  leaves  and  flowers  and 


260  The  Gayworthys. 

stones  and  shells,  that  she  could  be  anywhere  now,  since  Hilbury 
was  done  with. 

It  was  literally  the  " cr£me  de  la  crhne"  who  had  the  privilege 
of  this  parlor  ;  "  Topsy  "  people  ;  who  "  growed  "  ;  who  moved  in 
and  out  among  those  below  ;  whose  place  was  where  they  chose  it, 
but  who  showed  their  true  metal  only  when  rung  against  like  coin. 
People  who  drew  out  Say's  best ;  helped  her  to  ideas  and  facts ; 
enlarged  the  world  to  her,  material  and  human.  Among  them  she 
learned  one  thing  that  much  of  her  former  experience  had  tended 
to  give  her  doubt  of ;  that  people  may  be  true  and  yet  genial ;  that 
the  polite  world  is  not  all  sham.  She  thought  of  Gershom  Vorse 
in  these  days  ;  she  wished  he  might  be  here  ;  she  felt  it  hard  for 
him  that  life  should  give  him  nothing  better  than  it  did ;  she  re- 
membered with  a  clutching  pain  and  shame  at  her  heart  the  ter- 
rible words  of  Aunt  Prue,  "  she  has  managed  him  out  of  his  home 
and  away  from  me ;  she  has  managed  him  into  a  hard,  dangerous, 
distasteful  life  ;  "  she — Say's  mother!  Ah,  she  could  only  be  half- 
happy,  ever  again ! 

The  way  was  open  for  her  into  a  wider  life  after  her  return  to 
the  city.  This  winter  was  not  just  like  the  other  winters  she  had 
known.  She  was  intimate  still  at  Mrs.  Gorham's ;  people  met  her 
there  who  had  passed  her  by  in  general  society,  where  they  had 
seen  her  tricked  out,  like  scores  of  other  girls,  to  be  looked  at,  and 
wearing  the  telltale  expression  on  her  unfeigning  face,  of  a  vain 
anxiety,  a  mortified  weariness.  They  saw  her  differently ;  she  was 
different.  She  began  to  have  friends.  She  was  asked  to  new 
places.  She  ceased  to  be  slighted,  or  half-noticed,  anywhere.  Mrs. 
Topliff  could  neither  snub  nor  patronize  where  the  Gorhams  and 
the  Grays  quietly  acknowledged.  Say  "  had  things  real,"  now  ; 
these  things,  the  outside  appearance  of  which  she  cared  not  for. 
Mrs.  Gair  was  beatified.  They  were  wheeled  slowly  into  the  sys- 
tem. They  had  begun  actually  to  revolve. 

Say  entered  into  this  more  positive  life  of  society,  into  these  very 
best  things  of  it  that  met  her  need  most  pertinently,  with  a  certain 
secret  reluctance.  It  would  separate  her  from  the  old  life.  That 
would  lie  back  in  the  past ;  a  thing  left  behind  and  done  with.  She 
should  change  ;  she  felt  herself  changing.  She  should  have  new 
faiths,  new  interests.  And  her  child-friend — her  brother, — this  was 
what  she  called  him  still, — with  his  nobleness,  his  hatred  of  shams 
and  shows,  his  manly  grappling  with  the  life  he  had  been  set  to 
live, — would  be  going  such  a  different  way !  She  got  a  glimpse  in 
this,  her  larger  intercourse,  of  things  he  might  have  done,  as  he 
himself  had  got  it  years  ago,  when  it  was  too  late.  She  heard  grand 
words  spoken  for  human  right ;  she  learned  what  true,  loyal-hearted 
men,  with  power  and  education,  and  opportunity,  were  doing  in  the 
world.  She  saw  a  place  he  might  have  filled  ;  where  his  stern  jus- 
tice, his  heaven-clear  honesty,  his  searching  insight  into  motive  and 
meaning,  should  have  had  their  work.  And  he  was  away,  and  out 


Drifting  Apart.  261 

of  it  all.  Never  seeing  the  good  that  she  saw  ;  weaning  himself 
more  and  more  from  human  fellowship,  while  she  was  drawing  it 
more  closely  and  kindly  about  her.  It  was  not  fair.  She  owed 
him  something  other  than  this.  It  was  a  debt ;  she  was  secretly 
bound  to  watch  for  opportunity  to  right  him  ;  to  this  end  to  hold 
herself  still  in  the  line  of  possibilities  concerning  him. 

This  one  binding  motive  held  her  back  from  many  things  that 
might  else  have  happened.  Happened  very  naturally,  whatever  you 
may  think  I  should  make  so  of  her  constancy. 

Gershom  Vorse  had  been  to  her  the  ideal  of  man's  nobleness. 
Of  a  truth  that  scorned  disguise  ;  of  an  earnestness  that  searched 
through  all  things  even  to  unsatisfaction  and  scepticism  ;  of  a  plain, 
sincere  speech  and  bearing  that  were  better  than  polite  grace  ;  of 
a  bravery  put  to  tests  safe  people  never  dreamed  of;  of  a  power 
and  intelligence  that  gave  luster  to  the  rough  profession  he  had 
chosen,  and  made  their  opportunities,  instead  of  yielding  to  and 
being  obscured  by  circumstance.  All  this  she  honored,  loved  in 
him ;  longed  that  it  should  recognize  its  like  in  her ;  suffered  that 
it  misunderstood  her ;  bore  the  bitter  crisis  of  pain  and  shame  at 
finding  fully,  for  the  first  time  how  she  had  loved  and  honored  ; 
how  feebly  she  had  been  apprehended  and  requited. 

But  people  do  not  go  on  and  live  in  crisis  ;  things  subside  again  ; 
life  calms  itself,  and  takes  up  what  is  left. 

Sarah  Gair  might  even  have  married.  Then  her  life  would  have 
branched  away,  and  separated  itself  utterly  from  this  old  life  that 
she  clung  to, — that  was  sacred  to  her, — wherein  she  had  a  solemn, 
secret  duty,  grown  from  and  joined  to  a  strange  remorse  and  shame 
that  were  for  no  doing  of  her  own  ;  for  no  positive  doing  that  she 
knew  or  might  ever  come  to  know  ;  but  that  she  must  wait  to  com- 
prehend and  remedy.  This  task  of  honor  held  her  back,  when 
other  things  might  have  lured  and  led  her  on. 

She  had  learned  by  a  sudden  storm-flash  what  Gershom  Vorse 
had  truly  been  to  her.  She  had  learned  by  the  same  flash  that  he 
could  be  little  to  her  ever  again,  even,  perhaps,  in  brotherliness. 
This  pang  she  bore ;  it  crushed  her  down  for  the  moment,  but  she 
lived  through  it ;  and  life,  like  the  waterbrooks,  creeps  under  wreck 
and  obstruction  to  find  for  itself  new  channels.  You  cannot  help 
it,  young  dreamer  of  romance ;  it  is  your  life  also,  and  the  very 
nature  of  it. 

Say  might  even  have  married.  She  had  men  friends  also  in  the 
sphere  of  her  new  companionships, — men  of  culture  and  of  grace. 
She  saw  that  there  could  be  nobleness  that  was  always  gentle ; 
that  it  was  possible,  even  for  her,  with  her  mistakes  and  girlish 
weaknesses,  to  be  borne  with  and  counseled  tenderly,  and  cherished  ; 
she  who  had  been  so  little  used  to  this ! 

My  story  will  be  long  enough  without  it ;  since  she  did  not  marry 
him,  I  shall  tell  you  little  of  a  certain  Doctor  Robert  Gorham,  but 
his  name,  and  his  kindness  to  her  this  first  winter  of  her  actual, 


262  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

tried,  woman-life  ;  and  that,  before  the  winter  ended,  he  made  mam. 
fest  that  he  would  willingly  give  her  help  and  cherishing  throug\ 
all  the  winters  and  the  summers  that  they  two  might  have  to  live. 

It  was  not  the  old  love  only  that  withheld  her.  Old  love  sleep.s 
if  it  do  not  die.  It  has,  too,  its  reactions,  when  it  contrasts  itself 
and  its  pains,  and  its  unrequital,  and  the  injustice  it  has  borne, 
perhaps,  with  what  might  be,  with  what  offers  itself.  There  an* 
moments  when,  with  a  breath  refused  it  in  this  sleep,  it  might  pass 
;i\vay  and  be  no  more  ;  when  a  slight  added  impulse  given  the  re- 
action, it  might  fix  itself  beyond  the  point  of  possible  return.  It 
was  not  the  old  love  only ;  it  was  that  she  felt  vaguely  in  the  future 
a  something  waiting  for  her  to  do,  for  which  she  must  reserve  her- 
self and  hold  herself  free.  That  which  she  had  prayed  for  in  her 
trouble,  and  soothed  herself  with  thinking  God  would  give  her; 
something  generous  and  true  to  do  by  Gershom  Vorse.  Something, 
she  knew  not  what,  that  was  owed  him  honestly.  Something  she 
trembled  to  imagine  and  shrunk  from  beforehand,  but  which  time 
and  the  leading  of  Providence  should  make  clear.  Gershom  Vorse 
should  respect  her,  should  think  well  of  her,  should  know  that  she 
could  neither  lie  nor  hide.  She  would  rather  wait  for  this,  than 
take  even  the  gentle  love  that  was  ready  for  her.  Something,  truly, 
was  strong  upon  her ;  earnest  as  life  ;  drawing  her  surely  to  itself 
like  death ! 

In  the  summer  of  the  next  year  they  went  to  Europe.  Say,  her 
father,  and  her  mother.  Dear  old  Hilbury  was  far  behind.  The 
world  broadened  out  about  her.  She  saw,  and  learned,  and  enjoyed, 
and  was  strengthened.  Still  she  remembered.  Still, — in  the  sea- 
storm  or  glory, — in  the  strange  lands, — the  farther  she  drifted  out  of 
the  old  years  and  places, — the  deeper  lay  her  thought  and  memory  of 
him  who  was  a  wanderer  also,  not  for  pleasure,  but  for  toil ;  whose 
life,  while  hers  was  sweetening  and  ripening,  might  be  shriveling, 
and  hardening,  and  growing  bitter,  still  ;  who,  doubting  earth,  might 
also  be  doubting  God  and  heaven  !  He  had  been  hard  upon  her ; 
he  had  thrust  aside  what  she  would  have  given  ;  for  that  she  could 
have  found  it  in  her  to  be  proud,  resentful  ;  but  he  had  been 
wronged ;  she  blamed, — she  pitied, — she  was  tender  of  him  in  her 
heart ;  above  all,  she  kept  her  thought  of  him  alive,  longing  for  the 
hour  to  come,  which  should  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A   BIRTHDAY;   AND   WHAT   IT    BROUGHT. 

JOANNA  GAYWORTHY  rose  up  one  bright,  early  autumn  morn- 
ing— (it  was  a  year  from  that  time  when  Say  had  left  them,  after 
her  illness,  and  at  the  end  of  the  same  summer  wherein  she  had 
gone  abroad — )  with  a  wonderful  blithe  feeling  at  her  heart. 


A  Birthday  ;  and  What  It  Brought.     263 

Something, — whether  it  were  the  crisp  hill-breeze,  bearing  its 
ripened  odors  of  orchard  and  forest,  or  the  redundant  golden  sun- 
shine, that  itself  seemed  to  have  a  crispness  in  it,  or  a  happy 
physical  harmony  in  herself,  or  an  untraced  association  with  some 
old  happiness, — something,  touching  her  subtly  through  every 
sense,  carried  her  back  to  the  feeling  of  her  childhood  ;  quickened 
suddenly  within  her  its  spirit  of  confident  expectation,  its  percep- 
tion of  an  infinite  possibility  in  life ,  that  every  morning  had  used 
to  renew  itself  in  a  rich,  glad  wonder  of  what  this  day  should 
bring.  This  wonder  stirred  within  her  strangely,  now ;  it  was  as 
if  this  day  should  not  be  quite  like  all  others,  for  her ;  as  if,  some- 
.vhere  in  its  breadth  of  brightness,  in  its  atmosphere  of  joy,  lay  a 
special  gift  for  her.  A  gift !  She  remembered.  It  was  the  gift 
of  an  added  year.  It  was  her  birthday.  She  was  five  and  thirty, 
to-day.  Was  that  it  ?  Was  that  a  thing  for  a  woman  to  feel 
blithe  about  ?  To-day,  she  turned  her  back  upon  her  youth ;  it 
was  all  behind  her  now ;  she  set  her  face,  of  compulsion,  down- 
ward over  the  hill  of  life ;  she  had  passed  the  crest ;  the  wate-s 
flowed  the  other  way  ;  they  came  no  longer,  springing  from  swee* 
fountains,  to  meet  her ;  they  ran  from,  and  outran  her  ;  she  migh" 
not  choose ;  she  might  not  even  pause.  Why  should  she  have  thi 
nameless  gladness  at  her  heart  ? 

She  turned  to  her  glass  and  tried  to  feel  herself  old. 

"  I've  got  a  gray  hair  somewhere ;  saw  it  a  week  ago ;  I  ant 
old  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  "  And  yet,  I  feel  to-day,  like  a  child.' 

Everybody  told  Joanna  that  she  kept  her  youth  ;  she  knew  it ; 
she  felt  the  spring  of  it  within ;  she  wondered,  sometimes,  as  she 
wondered  at  this  moment,  how  it  was.  and  why.  It  seemed,  she 
said  to  herself,  as  if  a  freshness  in  her  had  been  kept  hermetically 
sealed,  waiting  for  something,  for  some  festival  time  that  was  to 
come.  Something  in  her  that  was  unfulfilled, — that  would  not  let 
life  wholly  ripen — that  forbade  it  to  decay. 

"  September — October — November,  even.  What  matter  is  it 
which,  if  summer  weather  lasts  ?  I  am  a  child."  She  had  turned, 
now,  to  her  window  again,  looking  out  with  pleasure  sweet  and 
new,  and  forever  young,  on  the  beautiful  hills  and  the  far-stooping 
sky,  that  had  encircled  her  life  these  five  and  thirty  years.  "  I  am 
a  child,  still,"  she  said  with  an  exulting  defiance.  "God's  child  ; 
with  His  Eternity  before  me,  and  the  good  in  it  that  I  have  been 
waiting  for,  and  coming  to  all  these  years,  that,  after  all,  are 
nothing ! " 

Leaning  thus,  and  looking  out  with  this  recognized  joy  that  had 
been  but  a  nameless  impulse,  rooting  itself  blessedly  in  her  heart, 
and  growing  into  her  face  as  real  joys  do,  she  saw  Gabriel  Harts- 
horne  come  quickly  out  at  the  front  gate  of  the  farmhouse,  and 
turn  his  steps  up  hill. 

Every  sense  was  sharp  in  her,  to-day ;  her  intuitions  keen,  to 
grasp  things  drawing  near. 


264  The  Gayworthys. 

"  He  is  coming  here,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  He  wants  us. — 
Something  has  happened  there. — And — yes — Mary  Makepeace  is 
away." 

Mary  Makepeace  had  been  gone  three  days  of  ten,  that  Gabriel 
had  given  her,  to  visit  her  old  home,  a  stage-journey  of  a  day  and 
a  half  eastward,  among  the  hills.  It  would  take  three  days  to  get 
her  back  again. 

Joanna  met  Gabriel  at  the  side  door.  His  face  was  pale  and  his 
manner  hurried. 

"  My  father.  Something  is  wrong  with  him  ;  and  I've  nobody 
there  but  Abby  and  Hiram.  Will  you  come  down  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Gabriel,  instantly."  Joanna's  face  was  earnest  and  pale 
as  his,  so  bright  as  it  had  been  a  moment  ago. 

Gabriel  turned  without  further  word,  and  walked  quickly  down 
toward  his  home  again.  Joanna  hastened  into  the  house,  and 
found  Rebecca.  The  two  women  lifted  their  gingham  bonnets 
from  the  entry  pegs  and  followed. 

How  she  blessed  her  five  and  thirty  years  !  In  that  moment 
when  her  thought  flashed  back  across  fifteen  of  them,  recalling  the 
hour  of  her  friend's  first,  bitter  trouble ;  when  she  had  been  but  a 
girl,  and  Prue,  the  woman,  had  been  privileged  to  help  him  !  How 
her  heart  sprang  with  half-acknowledged  selfishness  of  joy,  feeling 
that  there  was  none  nearer,  now,  than  she,  to  give  him  aid  and 
comfort !  She  claimed  this,  secretly,  of  life  ;  claiming  no  more. 
That,  stand  at  such  distance  as  they  might,  each  from  the  other, 
none  should  come  between  !  So  she  was  satisfied.  Anything 
other  would  have  been  outrage.  She  knew  God  would  not  let  it  be  ! 

"  I'm  old,"  she  was  inwardly  saying,  in  the  midst  of  her  real 
pain  and  anxiety  for  Gabriel.  "  I've  got  a  gray  hair,  somewhere. 
I'm  thirty-five  to-day.  I  can  be  his  friend  !  I  can  help  him 
always  ;  and  he  will  be  sure  to  come  to  me.  That  was  enough  to 
to  glad  for  !  " 

They  went  in  at  the  open  farmhouse  door.  Gabriel  met  them 
in  the  great  kitchen,  coming  out  of  his  father's  bedroom. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  Bridge,  myself.  Hiram  is  slow,  and  blunder- 
ing ;  and  the  doctor  may  be  anywhere.  I  shall  find  him,  and  come 
back  as  soon  as  possible.  Will  you  come  and  stay  with  him  ?  " 

They  followed  him  into  the  old  man's  room.  It  was  easy  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  One  fallen  eyelid, — one  corner  of  the  mouth 
drawn  down, — the  soul  gone  out  one  half  of  him, — he  lay  there, 
speechless  and  helpless. 

There  were  tears  in  the  women's  eyes,  as  they  looked  at  him, 
and  then  at  Gabriel.  Gabriel's  were  sad,  but  clear  and  strong. 
He  knew  that  the  end  was  coming ;  the  end  of  his  long,  faithful, 
loving  work ;  the  end,  also,  of  all  darkness  and  feebleness  for  him 
who  had  dwelt  under  the  cloud  so  long. 

They  bathed,  and  chafed,  and  laid  warm  things  about  him  ;  did 
what  they  knew  ;  and  then  they  sat  and  watched. 


A  Birthday  ;  and  What  It  Brought.     265 

In  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  Gabriel  came  back  with  the  doctor. 

There  was  little  to  do.  It  might  be  a  question  of  hours,  or  of 
days  ;  it  could  not  be  a  question  of  life  or  death,  for  long.  There 
were  few  words  said  among  them,  after  the  doctor  had  given  his 
directions  and  gone  away  ;  they  quietly  arranged  things,  or  things 
fell  naturally  into  arrangement,  after  the  necessity.  One  must  go 
home,  for  awhile ;  one  would  stay.  Joanna  took  with  silent 
decision  her  right  of  precedence  ;  was  she  not  the  elder  ?  Truly, 
there  were  almost  three  years  between  these  two  women,  both  so 
well  past  thirty. 

Rebecca  went  home  ;  she  would  come  again  by-and-by  ;  Joanna 
stayed,  watching  by  the  stricken  man,  while  Gabriel  ate,  as  he 
could,  his  delayed  breakfast ;  then  she  owned  she  had  not  eaten 
hers,  and  changed  places  with  him  ;  seating  herself  at  his  board. 

It  was  strange  ;  it  was  sad  and  solemn  ;  but  it  was  very  sweet. 
The  morning  joy  could  not  die  wholly  out  of  her  heart ;  she  was 
here  with  him;  he  relied  upon  her;  she  was  more  to  him  than  any 
other  woman  in  the  world  ;  this  was  the  birthday  gift  God  gave  to 
her. 

Hiram  went  away  to  the  farm  work ;  Abby  betook  herself  to 
kitchen  and  dairy ;  these  two,  Gabriel  and  Joanna,  were  left  to 
their  watch. 

Soft  womanly  touches  laid  all  things  tenderly  straight  and  com- 
fortable ;  prompt,  quiet  hands  administered  all  that  could  be  given  , 
friendly  woman-eyes  met  the  man's,  warmly,  silently ;  heart  and 
soul  were  very  near  ;  there  had  been  no  such  presence  in  Gabriel's 
home,  partaking  the  inner  life  of  it,  since  the  mother  went  away. 
Had  there  been,  ever  ?  Should  there  be,  ever  again  ? 

Holiest  joy — tenderest  grief — touch  often.  If  there  be  a  joy  left, 
sorrow  magnetizes  it  to  a  counterpart  depth  of  blessedness.  There 
was  a  peace  in  Gabriel  Hartshorne's  soul  beyond  where  pain  could 
reach. 

The  warm,  September  day  climbed  to  its  highest  glory,  and 
faded  down.  Down  to  a  still  gorgeousness,  gathered  among  the 
western  hills.  Rebecca  was  with  them,  now.  The  two  sisters 
would  remain  in  the  house  all  night.  Gabriel  would  not  let  them 
watch.  That  was  his  office.  He  would  call  them  if  he  needed 
them. 

He  could  not  keep  her  from  his  watch.  She  was  there  with  him, 
and  he  knew  it ;  though  doors  were  closed  between  them,  and  the 
silence  of  sleep  lay  upon  the  house.  He  knew  she  did  not  sleep. 
He  felt  her  wakeful  thoughts  with  him,  all  through  the  midnight. 
There  were  but  two  hours  wherein  he  had  a  sense  of  being  alone. 
Those  two,  Joanna  slept,  sitting  in  the  great,  old-fashioned  easy- 
chair  by  the  best  room  window.  She  had  risen  noiselessly,  from 
Rebecca's  side,  unable  to  close  her  eyes,  leaving  her  sister  quietly 
unconscious.  And  at  last,  relinquished  sleep  had  come  to  her. 

He  knew  she  was  coming.     It  was  early  dawn,  and  there  had 


266  The  Gayworthys. 

been  no  sound.  But  the  felt  presence  was  with  him  again ;  his 
watch  was  no  longer  solitary.  As  the  morning  paled  out  of  the 
midnight,  and  the  stars  fainted,  and  the  first  blush  came  over  the 
gray,  he  heard  without  surprise  her  step  approaching ;  the  soft 
sweep  of  her  garments  stirred  the  air  of  the  hushed  house.  He 
stood  up  in  the  doorway  as  she  came,  and  held  his  hand  out. 

"  No  change  ?  " 

"No  change." 

Could  the  heart  help  it,  if,  out  of  its  complex  meanings,  a  second 
wound  itself  to  the  words,  and  came  thrilling  after,  like  a  blessed 
echo  ? 

No  change,  between  these  two. 

It  might  never  be  said  plainer ;  the  tangle  of  life  might  go  on ; 
the  flaw  from  that  twisted  thread  of  long  ago  might  never  be 
righted  into  perfectness ;  yet  the  inevitable  truth — the  pattern 
divined  across  the  fault — flashed  so,  with  now  and  then  chance 
lights,  and  comforted  them,  they  scarce  knew  how. 

Joanna  stayed  in  the  kitchen  ;  drew  out  the  glowing  embers  from 
under  the  ashes  in  the  wide,  old-fashioned  chimney ;  heaped  them 
into  a  living  mass,  with  tremulous,  spirit-breath  of  fire ;  set  some- 
thing thereon ;  flitted  between  pantry  and  dairy ;  and  brought 
Gabriel,  presently,  a  great  steaming,  odorous  breakfast-cup  of  such 
coffee  as  she  could  make. 

"  If  you  will  take  some,  too,"  he  said,  as  she  put  it  into  his  hand. 
"  I  don't  think  you  have  slept  much  more  than  I." 

So  she  fetched  another  cup  and  poured  herself  some ;  and  they 
broke  their  fast  together. 

Hiram  and  Abby  appeared  presently.  The  world  was  going  to 
be  alive  again. 

"  Now,  you  must  go  and  rest,"  Joanna  said.  "  Rebecca  will  be 
here.  I  will  call  you  in  an  hour." 

By  that  promise  she  prevailed  ;  and  Gabriel  left  her.  To  faithful 
watch  and  most  sweet  thoughts. 

The  mornincr  wore  along.     The  hour  went  by. 

"  I  think  he  ooks  more  as  if  he  knew,"  said  Joanna,  coming 
from  the  bedside. 

There  had  been  a  stupor  like  a  sleep  ;  now  there  was  a  clearer 
look,  an  opened  eye,  in  that  half  the  aged  face  where  soul  yet  lin- 
gered so  strangely  ;  the  dead  half  lying  so  fearfully  dead. 

A  glance  met  Gabriel's  as  he  came  close ;  there  could  be  no 
sign  ;  it  was  but  a  look.  Asking — beseeching ;  recognizing  sound  ; 
a  quicker  consciousness,  than  in  the  twilight  of  his  faculties,  the 
poor  old  man  had  shown  for  years. 

Gabriel  got  the  Bible  that  lay  upon  the  bureau-top ;  he  opened 
where  there  was  a.  mark  between  the  leaves  ;  standing  by  his 
father's  bed  he  read  some  verses ;  straight  on  from  where  he  had 
read  last,  forty-eight  hours  ago.  The  asking  eye  calmed ;  the 
smitten  face  wore  a  look  of  listening ;  the  one  hand  pressed  Ga- 


A  Birthday  ;  and  What  It  Brought.     267 

briel's  as  he  took  it,  when  he  had  ended  reading.  Bending  above 
him,  the  strong,  tender  man  spoke  like  a  child,  the  simple  words  of 
the  Lord's  Prayer.  It  had  been  his  morning  service  with  his  child- 
like father  for  many  years.  Joanna  bowed  her  head  and  the  tears 
fell.  "  The  best  Christian  in  Hilbury,"  her  heart  repeated. 

The  morning  wore  along.  The  church-bells  rang.  The  people 
streamed  by  up  the  road,  in  country  wagons.  The  Sabbath 
warmth  and  stillness  brooded  ;  and  a  rest  lay  upon  the  land. 
There  was  a  hush  and  quiet  in  the  house  where  Death  was  com- 
ing. All  through  the  early  day  and  the  bright  noontide,  that  seem- 
ing of  sleep  was  upon  the  sick  man ;  then  again,  at  afternoon,  the 
faint  rousing:  the  glimmer  of  a  life-light  over  the  half-blank  face; 
the  eye  that  searched,  and  wandered,  and  besought;  the  hand 
moving  restlessly  till  the  strong  one  came  and  clasped  it.  And 
Gabriel  said,  gently,  as  the  returning  wagons  began  to  roll  down 
hill, — "  I  will  go,  father,  for  the  minister.  It  is  Sunday.  It  is  Com- 
munion Day." 

So  he  went ;  and  Rebecca  made  ready.  When  he  came  back, 
bringing  the  preacher  with  him, — a  man  of  grave,  pure  face,  and 
somewhat  sternly  reverend  bearing, — there  was  the  little  table  by 
the  bedside,  with  the  white  napkin  covering  it,  holding  fair  bread, 
and  red  symbolic  wine. 

There  was  a  voice  of  prayer  and  blessing.  Christ's  dear  words 
were  uttered,  and  the  bread  was  broken,  and  the  wine  was  poured  ; 
and  the  son  held  cup  and  morsel,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do,  to  the 
old  helpless  lips  ;  and  the  women  bowed  and  wept. 

There  was  a  fragment  that  the  old  man  could  not  take ;  it  was 
only  a  crumb,  indeed,  from  the  Lord's  feast  that  might  be  given 
him.  And  Gabriel,  without  pause  of  doubt  or  question,  shared  the 
symbol  as  he  shared  the  gift.  Before,  he  had  done  this  ;  in  the 
church,  when  the  old  man  proffered  it  childishly,  or  dropped  a 
portion,  unpartaken ;  Gabriel  would  not  let  it  fall  like  common 
waste,  but  ate  it  with  a  quiet  reverence.  To-day,  still  calmly, 
questionlessly,  he  did  more.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  lifted 
the  wine  to  his  own  lips,  that  had  spoken  no  church-vow ;  and  the 
Puritan  pastor  beheld  it,  saying  no  word.  It  was  a  pure  assurance, 
a  holy  audacity  ;  had  not  his  whole  life  been  a  vow  ?  Was  not,  in 
this  hour,  this  cup  of  a  last  supper  held  out  to  him,  above  them  all? 

Rebecca  joined  in  the  gracious  rite  ;  the  minister  offered  its 
emblems  to  her ;  it  was  her  proper  privilege.  Joanna  sat  by  and 
put  forth  no  hand.  But  her  soul  was  with  the  soul  of  him  she 
loved  ;  and  inwardly  she  drank  with  him,  the  selfsame  pain, — the 
selfsame  joy. 

After  that  the  day  went  do\vn.  The  light  of  a  human  life  went 
also  down.  Slowly,  flickeringly,  flushing  a  little  at  the  last  with  a 
parting  ray,  that  told  the  coming  night  was  as  truly,  over  the 
verge,  a  coming  morning ;  it  changed  and  settled  to  the  moveless 
Peace. 


a68  The  Gayworthys. 

In  the  dropping  shadow  they  went  out  at  last,  and  left  him. 
Alone,  with  his  dead. 

And  a  cry  of  the  human  went  up  from  that  closed  room.  A 
word  gasped  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 

"  I've  been  true  to  you,  Mother  !  Mother ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  SCARLET  OAK. 

THEY  came  again  and  set  the  house  in  order  for  him,  for  the 
burying.  They  made  all  sweet,  and  pure,  and  orderly.  They 
placed  flowers  about  ;  common  home-flowers,  late-blooming ;  color- 
less asters  and  petunias.  Joanna  brought  one  white  rose  from  her 
own  window,  twined  with  glistening  myrtle,  tied  with  a  ribbon. 
She  came  to  Gabriel  and  laid  it  on  his  hand.  "  It  is  for  the 
mother,"  she  said  softly,  and  turned  away.  There  was  a  thought 
in  it  the  simple-spoken  woman  would  not  put  in  words.  "  For 
the  new  bridal.  The  golden  wedding  that  was  in  heaven  this 
day." 

Gabriel  came  to  her  an  hour  or  two  before  the  service.  He  \vas 
freshly  dressed  in  pure  white  linen,  and  his  Sunday  suit  that  was 
always  black.  He  had  in  his  hand  a  needle,  that  he  had  found 
somewhere  and  threaded.  Mary  Makepeace,  just  come,  was  in 
her  own  chamber. 

"  I  must  trouble  you,"  he  said ;  and  held  out  a  loosened  wrist- 
band, from  which  a  button  had  fallen.  A  simple,  common  need, 
coming  in  to  assert  itself  among  deeper  need  and  loss,  as  such 
things  do  in  this  strange  life  of  ours. 

Joanna  had  been  sitting  by  the  window.  She  turned  and  came 
to  him.  She  had  filled  tenderer  office  for  him  to-day,  than  this ; 
she  had  ministered  closer  to  his  heart's  asking;  yet  there  was 
something  in  this  homely,  womanly  service  he  came  to  beg  of  her, 
finding  no  other  to  perform,  that  moved  and  thrilled  her  curiously. 
Even  to  a  girl's  shyness.  He  held  his  hand  out,  and  hers  touched 
it,  passing  back  and  forth  at  her  slight  task.  They  stood  close 
together.  It  was  such  a  bit  of  help  as  a  sister  might  give  a 
brother ;  a  wife,  a  husband.  Suddenly  she  felt  the  color  come  ; 
up,  higher  and  higher  into  her  face,  that  grew  angry  in  shame  at 
itself ;  at  such  unfitting  hour,  to  be  making  foolishly  much  of  a 
thing  like  this!  Yet  she  was  helpless;  she,  with  her  five  and 
thirty  years.  She  would  not  do  her  work  at  halves  ;  she  fastened 
her  thread  properly,  and  broke  it  cautiously ;  with  the  moisture 
springing  to  her  very  finger-tips,  and  a  beating  in  her  ears. 

What  could  he  think  of  her  ? 


The  Scarlet  Oak.  269 

He  only  said,  with  his  gentle,  dwelling  accent,  invariable  with 
the  words, — "  Thank  you — Joanna  !  " 

She  could  but  hope  he  would  forget  ;  there  was  quite  enough  to 
make  him.  But  he  did  not  forget ;  he  only  put  by. 

For  a  fortnight  after,  they  saw  little  of  him  ;  the  time  of  helping 
and  necessity  was  past ;  he  had  Mary  Makepeace  with  him  for  all 
service  ;  they  were  only  neighbor-women  again  ;  he,  a  man,  living 
alone  ;  secluded,  with  a  grief. 

Of  any  definite  difference  these  events  might  make  to  her,  Jo- 
anna never  let  herself  think ;  but  she  was  perturbed,  restless  with 
a  secret  something  that  was  not  joy — how  could  it  be?  yet  that 
had  been  never  still  in  her — only  overborne  by  tenderer,  solemner 
feeling — since  that  birthday  morning  when  it  sprang  like  a  mys- 
terious premonition,  unlocked  for,  in  her  heart.  The  friendly  calm, 
the  calm  that  she  had  thought  for  life,  was  leaving  her ;  since  that 
foolish,  miserable  moment,  she  had  been  afraid  of  herself ;  afraid 
of  him  ;  she  held  back  suddenly  from  what  she  had  eagerly  claimed 
in  virtue  of  her  years ;  she  let  Rebecca  go  foremost  now,  in  neigh- 
borly kindness.  She  said  to  herself  she  was  a  fool ;  getting  into  a 
girl-silliness,  now  when  she  had  lived  out  half  her  life.  Now,  just 
when  her  friendship  might  be  quietest  and  strongest ;  when  it  was 
bringing  her  toward  Gabriel,  as  they  should  come  nearer  to  each 
other,  now  that  they  both  were  growing  old. 

She  was  odd  ;  impulsive  ;  she  made  Rebecca  think  of  the  old  Jo- 
anna, with  her  unreasonableness  and  whims ;  her  petulance ;  her 
sudden  despondencies ;  her  gayeties,  as  sudden. 

It  went  on  so  for  weeks  ;  and  the  autumn  ripened.  The  early 
glories  came  and  went ;  the  maples  flamed  ;  the  elms  mellowed  ; 
oak  and  ash  burnished  themselves  in  bronze  and  crimson  ;  and  the 
winds  came  and  fresheted  all  the  waysides  and  woodpaths  with  a 
down-pour  of  color. 

Over  in  the  great  orchard,  beside  the  boulder-tower,  the  brave 
old  scarlet  oak  burst  out  with  tardy  fires.  Like  a  passion  or  a  joy 
come  late  in  life,  it  filled  all  the  impoverished  landscape  with  a 
deep  strong  warmth  of  radiance.  Above  it  the  blue  hung  tenderly  ; 
it  was  a  picture  of  hope ;  a  promise  ;  a  type  of  grand  and  sure 
fulfilment. 

"  It  has  waited  to  be  more  beautiful  than  all  ;  it  will  last  away 
into  the  winter.  I'll  go  and  bring  home  branches,  and  pile  them 
on  my  hearth  to  warm  me  by,"  Joanna  said,  looking  out  through 
thinning  boughs  that  opened  toward  the  distant  splendor. 

She  felt  the  life-meaning  of  it ;  the  correspondence  of  its  hope 
was  in  her  soul.  Nameless,  restless,  stirring  fitfully,  like  branches 
flashing  in  an  autumn  wind  ;  but  large  and  real ;  planted  there 
beside  a  rock. 

She  came  down-stairs  with  shawl  and  hood  upon  her  arm. 

"  I'm  going  off,  out  to  the  great  oak  orchard;  to  be  glad  and 
to  bring  home  glory.  Look  there!"  and  she  pointed  out  at  the 


2/o  The  Gayworthys. 

opened  door,  to  the  great  dome  of  sunlight  and  color,  rearing  itself 
against  a  space  of  sky  between  the  hills. 

"  But  look  here  !  "  whispered  Rebecca. 

"  Yah  ! "  responded  Joanna,  in  a  snarl,  below  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Prouty  was  within  the  yard,  coming  up  over  the  chips  with 
the  security  of  a  saint  in  her  ordained  place,  it  being  her  special 
afternoon  for  visits,  and  with  most  intimate  aim  at  the  side  doorstone 
whereon  Joanna  was  just  about  to  set  her  foot.  Country  civility 
could  not  avail  itself  of  "  business  "  or  "  engagements  "  and  walk 
off,  straight  before  the  comer's  eyes,  into  the  empty  fields.  Glad- 
ness and  glory  must  give  way ;  she  must  come  in  with  her  guest 
and  pretend  to  be  pleased. 

Mrs.  Prouty  and  the  Deacon  had  been  down  to  see  Gabriel.  A 
visit — ex-officio — of  condolence  and  exhortation  ;  a  fag  end  of 
business  appended,  which  leading  the  "  men-folks  "  off  towards  the 
barns  and  cider  mill,  the  good  lady  had  bid  Mary  Makepeace  goocl- 
by,  and  "  guessed  she  would  step  on  up  hill  and  set  with  the  Gay- 
worthys till  the  Deacon  came  along." 

People  whose  lives  jog  on  in  uneventful  rounds,  are  greatly 
stirred  at  changes  happening  to  their  neighbors.  Mrs.  Prouty  was 
exercised  as  to  the  "what  next "  with  Gabriel  Hartshorne. 

"  All  alone  in  the  world  as  he  was  now,  and  nothing  to  bind  him 
anywhere,  would  he  stay,  and  carry  on  the  farm,  or  would  he  git 
res'less  and  start  off  ?  " 

The  great  world  suddenly  spread  itself  out  to  Joanna's  thought, 
as  it  had  looked  to  her  that  summer  day  from  the  mountain-top. 
It  was  too  wide.  Too  many  things  were  possible.  Her  life,  that 
been  concentered  in  one  point,  might  scatter  itself.  How  should 
she  bear  it  if  it  did  ?  Oh,  a  friend  was  a  troublesome  thing  ! 
There  was  no  outward  ownership  in  him.  He  might  take  himself 
off,  stretching  out  your  heart-strings  after  him  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  and  you  should  have  no  right  to  cry  out.  An  impotent 
restlessness,  an  angry  impatience,  seized  her  again.  She  hated 
Mrs.  Prouty.  She  almost  snapped  at  her;  and,  catching  herself 
at  it,  decided  not  to  try  to  talk,  but  left  the  conversation  to  Rebecca, 
and  sat  by,  her  elbow  pressed  down  hard  upon  the  window-sill, 
and  one  foot  treading  savagely  on  the  other's  toes. 

"  It's  my  idee  " — she  thought  the  words  up  here,  after  a  con- 
fused babble  about  the  farm,  and  the  expense  of  hired  folks  in  the 
house,  and  the  difficulties  to  a  single  man,  during  which  her  thought 
had  hurled  itself  away  on  its  own  tangent  of  pain,  "  It's  my  idee — 
he's  been  tied  down  so  close  all  his  life — he'll  go  somewers  now. 
I  dunno's  I've  any  clear  callin'  to  mention  it,  but  I  s'pose  you'd 
know  as  quick  as  anybody  if  there  was  anything  in  it — Mary  Make- 
peace did  say  something  to-day  about  Californy.  She's  got  a 
brother  there;  and  Gabriel's  been  asking  questions,  it  seems.  She 
kinder  mistrusts  he's  got  a  notion  of  it  in  his  head  ;  and  the  Deacon 
says  the  farm  is  ruther  run  out,  some  of  it.  He  thinks  very  well 


The  Scarlet  Oak. 

of  Gabriel,  the  deacon  cloos ;  though  he  isn't  an  experimental 
Christian.  But  I  hope,  now  father  and  mother  has  forsaken  him, 
he'll  look  to  the  Lord  to  take  him  up." 

Hot,  indignant  drops  started  to  Joanna's  eyes ;  her  cheeks 
flamed ;  she  whisked  herself  suddenly  off  her  seat,  and  into  the 
kitchen,  where  she  put  her  head  into  the  oven,  to  look  after  ginger- 
bread that  had  been  cooling  for  fifteen  minutes  in  the  pantry. 

She  was  saved  return  ;  the  deacon's  chaise  seesawed  and  clat- 
tered itself,  ricketily,  to  the  doorstone  ;  and  Mrs.  Prouty  bustled 
out.  She  never  kept  the  Deacon  waiting.  The  ineffable  compla- 
cency of  the  perfect  woman  spread  itself  over  her  face,  and  her 
features  leveled  themselves  into  a  plane  of  benignity,  as  if  they 
had  been  suddenly  flatironed,  as  she  took  her  privileged  seat  by  his 
side,  and  departed  sweetly  to  remaining  duties. 

Joanna  shut  the  door  in  a  silent  rage,  and  darted  up-stairs. 
Rebecca  had  some  housewifely  business  in  the  kitchen  chamber, 
and  followed. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  simply,  with  her  head  in  a  linen  chest, 
close  by  Joanna's  chamber  door,  "  whether  Gabriel  really  does 
think  of  going  away." 

"  You,  too  !  " 

It  came  with  a  sharpness  so  like  a  shriek,  that  Rebecca  involun- 
tarily sprang  to  her  feet,  and  entered  her  sister's  room.  To  see 
her  fling  herself  passionately  down  along  the  bed  ;  shawl,  hood, 
and  all,  in  a  heap  between  her  arms  and  under  her  face. 

"  Dear  child  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

A  sob ;  a  little,  quick,  gasping  laugh ;  a  sob  again ;  a  hand 
stretched  out  and  clutching  Rebecca  by  the  wrist ;  a  tempest  of 
tears,  then  ;  a  real  shriek,  smothered  with  the  head  held  down 
between  the  shawl  and  pillows. 

Rebecca  slipped  from  her  grasp,  and  shut  the  doors,  and  brought 
sal  volatile.  This  "  old  Miss  Gayworthy,"  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  most  unexpectedly  to  herself,  yet  with  the  utmost  natural- 
ness was  going  into  hysterics. 

"  That  woman — she  always — hears — with  her  elbows  ! — But  to 
think — that  you — shouldn't  know — any  better !  " 

She  knew  enough  better,  now.  She  wondered  she  had  never 
known  before. 

She  put  her  arms  around  her  sister,  tenderly ;  she  drew  her 
head  down  on  her  bosom. 

It  was  all  out ;  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  and  Joanna  gave  her- 
self up,  recklessly,  to  the  comfort  of  a  dear  human  sympathy. 

"  You  never  told  me  this,"  said  Rebecca,  by  and  by,  almost  re- 
proachfully. She  forgot  she  had  never  told  her  sister  that.  We 
live  so  close  together,  and  yet  so  far  apart ! 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  ?  "  cried  Joanna,  lifting  up  her  head, 
suddenly,  with  something  of  the  old  spirit  of  whimsicalness.  "  Did 
you  ever  know  of  a  burnt  hand  I  got  once,  when  I  was  five  years 


272  The  Gayworthys. 

old,  and  nobody  ever  could  find  out  how  ?  There's  the  scar ;  I 
wonder  if  you  ever  saw  it  before  ?  "  and  she  held  up  her  fair  palm, 
whereon  was  a  whitened  seam.  "  Well !  now  you've  seen  it,  and 
I'm  come  to  general  confession,  and  I'll  tell  you.  I  took  up  a  live 
coal  in  it.  I  wasn't  fool  enough  to  tell  that — though  I  did  it ;  nor 
this  ;  not  even  the  smart  of  it.  Only — the  old  hurt  began  to  ache 
so,  all  of  a  sudden  ! " 

And  Joanna  laughed  and  cried,  again,  together;  and  turned 
herself  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow ;  all  but  one  crimsoned 
ear,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  boxed. 

After  awhile,  in  a  smothered  voice,  with  her  nose  down  among 
the  feathers, — 

"  Aren't  you  gone  ?  You've  got  it  all,  now ;  why  don't  you  go 
away  ?  "  As  if  she  were  a  dog  that  had  come  for  a  bone. 

Whereat  Rebecca  rose,  silently,  from  the  bedside,  and  went. 

An  hour  after,  down-stairs,  by  the  sitting-room  window,  she 
lifted  her  eyes  from  her  needlework  to  see  Gabriel  Hartshorne 
coming,  with  his  grave  air  and  steady  step,  up  among  the  red  and 
yellow  maple  leaves.  At  the  same  instant,  something  in  a  shawl 
and  hood  whisked  out  at  the  end  door,  and  flitted  down  the  barn- 
road,  by  the  garden  fence. 

Years  ago  she  had  been  left,  just  so  ;  to  bear  her  own  hurt , 
now  she  must  receive  the  first  pang  for  another. 

Gabriel  was  come  to  tell  them  something.  Of  himself,  perhaps ; 
this  very  news.  It  did  not  seem  impossible  to  Rebecca  that  it 
might  be  true.  In  the  prime  of  life — alone — with  untried  capacity 
yet  waiting  within  him — what  wonder  would  it  be  if  this  man, 
always  of  a  power  beyond  the  scope  he  found  for  it,  should  go 
forth  from  his  solitude  into  the  great  world,  at  last  ? 

She  stood  up,  and  glanced  after  the  flitting  figure.  Safe ;  skim- 
ming along  the  cart-path  through  the  spring  meadow,  already ; 
making  straight  for  the  oak-orchard  and  the  great  scarlet  tree. 
Then  she  went  out  and  welcomed  Gabriel,  and  drew  him  in ;  lest, 
left  to  wait  an  instant  on  the  doorstone,  he  should  turn  and  see 
what  she  saw. 

He  came  in,  and  sat  down  ;  sat  silent,  for  some  moments ;  he 
was  apt  to  come  and  sit  so,  in  those  days ;  and  the  sisters  never 
took  it  strange,  or  hastened  him  with  speech. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  he  began,  after  awhile,  "  a  great  deal, 
lately.  And  I've  come  to  talk  some  of  my  thoughts  out." 

"  You  can.     You  know  that,  Gabriel." 

"  I  know ;  and  I  do  ;  all  that  can  be  talked  of. — It  seems  to  me 
sometimes  as  if  my  work  was  done  here, — for  the  present." 

"  I  dare  say  it  does,  just  now,"  she  answered. 

"  The  farm  would  be  as  well  let  out,  no  doubt.  I  don't  seem  to 
feel  spirit  for  what  it  needs.  The  soul  of  the  old  place  is  gone. 
And  yet  it's  home  to  me.  You  can't  tell  how,  Rebecca !  Out  in 
the  world  somewhere,  there  may  be  something  waiting  for  me  to 


The  Scarlet  Oak.  273 

do— and  to  get.  If  I  could  go  and  bring  back  money .  Re- 
becca, I'm  not  well  off,  and  the  farm  won't  make  me  richer. 
Things  have  run  down  a  good  deal  in  all  these  years.  If  I  could 

ever  stand  in  the  right  position,  there  might  be ."  Gabriel 

paused.  He  had  not  come  to  think  all  his  thoughts  out,  after  all. 

She  wondered  to  herself  if  she  guessed  rightly.  This  was  a 
proud  man ;  with  the  grand,  honest  pride  that  keeps  men  upright 
of  mind,  though  nobly  humble,  also,  of  soul.  They — the  Gay- 
worthy  sisters — were  the  heiresses  of  Hilbury,  with  money  and 
culture  more  than  their  neighbors  ;  more  than  this  faithful  son  who 
had  waited  God's  time ;  who  seemed  not  ever  to  find  his  own  time. 

"  Hilbury  would  miss  you  sorely,"  she  said,  with  a  tremble  of 
regret  and  sympathy. 

"  Not  as  I  should  miss  Hilbury,"  he  answered,  in  a  sudden, 
strong  way,  that  was  almost  like  a  spoken  sob,  the  feeling  burst 
so  with  it.  My  whole  heart  is  here,  as  my  life  has  been.  And 
my  grave  must  be  here,  as  theirs  are." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Rebecca  asked — 

"  Where  would  you  go,  Gabriel  ?  " 

"  To  the  place  from  which  I  could  come  quickest  back  again. 
To  the  gold  country." 

'Jpon  this  moment  might  hang  all.  It  was  laid  upon  her  to 
speak.  But  how  ? 

Out  of  her  true,  friendly  heart. 

"  We  might  bear  it.  But  it  would  be  very  hard.  Gold  doesn't 
buy  friendship,  Gabriel,  or  make  it  any  richer.  You  might  come 
back  to  find  more  graves.  You  might  not  come  till  we  should  all 
be  old.  Don't  go,  Gabriel ! " 

He  flashed  up  a  strange,  earnest,  appealing  look  to  her  face. 
Some  women  might  have  misunderstood  it.  She  herself  might 
have  wondered  at  it,  but  for  what  she  had  learned  this  day.  She 
read  it  truly  now.  If  other  lips  had  so  besought !  If  this,  or 
something  like,  yet  more,  might  be  in  another  heart  for  him  ! 

She  was  sure.  With  her  pure  insight,  she  discerned  it  all.  She 
spoke  to  his  silence.  She  reached  straight  clown  and  touched  the 
secret  of  his  soul.  With  a  quick,  sweet,  electric  surprise. 

"  If  you  must  go," — she  spoke  slow  and  steadily,  yet  with  a  low 
thrill  of  womanly  timidity, — "  if  you  find  you  must,  come  and  tell 
Joanna  yourself.  I  don't  dare  !  " 

Two  breaths  were  audible  in  the  still  room.  A  fluttering  res- 
piration of  a  woman  frightened  at  her  words  the  moment  they  had 
fallen.  A  deep,  hard  pant  out  of  the  bosom  of  a  man. 

Rebecca  stood  by  the  window.  She  had  risen  and  turned  her 
face  away  outward.  A  step  came  up  to  her ;  a  hand  lay  on  her 
shoulder.  The  strong,  eager  breathing  was  in  her  ear. 

"  Where  is  Joanna  ?  " 

"Away  down  there  in  the  oak-orchard.     Gone  to  the  old  tree." 

Gabriel  snatched  his  hat  and  strode  away. 


274  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

She  heard  him  coming,  sitting  there  under  the  spread  of  the 
great  flaming  boughs,  and  looking  off  from  this  lower  edge  of  the 
orchard  over  the  yellow  stubble  of  cornstalks  down  the  slope  to 
the  still,  sweet  river-glen,  and  across  to  the  rising  uplands  beyond, 
— the  fields  that  joined  the  Hartshorne  farm,  and  had  been  rented 
and  used  by  Gabriel. 

She  sat  there  trying  to  take  it  all  in ;  how  Hilbury  would  look 
without  him  ;  what  her  life  would  be  ;  and  whether  she  could  bear 
it.  She  took  up  this  live  coal  of  pain  and  tried  how  long  she  could 
hold  it ;  and  a  cry  was  rising  to  her  lips  as  the  anguish  grew  too 
sharp ;  and  then  she  heard  him  coming. 

She  sat  still,  moving  not  a  hair;  not  even  to  look  up;  as  one 
cowers  under  the  coming  of  a  blow.  She  waited  to  be  crushed. 

"  Joanna  ! "  and  two  hands  were  held  to  her. 

She  put  hers  up  and  let  him  take  them,  but  she  lifted  not  her 
face. 

"  Dear  friend,  I  have  come  to  tell — to  ask  you — something." 

"  Ask,  Gabriel." 

He  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  fallen  leaves  ;  over  their 
heads  the  red,  shifting  lights  of  that  late  forest-fervor ;  in  their 
hearts  what  ripeness  of  strong  love,  waiting  the  frost-touch  for  its 
perfect  revelation  ! 

"  I  have  had  thoughts, — I  don't  know  whether  they  are  wise 
ones,  but  my  life  turns  here.  I  must  decide  what  the  rest  of  it 
shall  be,  and  I  have  come  to-day  to  tell  my  thoughts  to  my  best 
friends.  I  am  not  yet  old  ;  there  may  be  something  that  I  can  do 
in  the  world.  Ought  I  to  go  and  find  it  ?  and  come  back, — that  of 
a  certainty,  God  willing, — when  I  have  found  and  done  it  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  come  and  say  this  to  me  ?  "  The  face  still  turned 
away,  and  the  eyes  downward  ;  a  strange  forced  tone  in  the  voice. 

"  Because — I  must,  Joanna.     I  have  said  all  to  you,  always." 

"  No,  you  have  not !  "  It  was  a  cry  of  the  heart  in  which  the 
words  came.  "  And  this — you  know  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

Then  she  started  to  her  feet,  and  flung  herself  away  from  him. 

For  a  moment  the  great  surge  of  joy  that  swelled  up  in  him 
would  not  let  him  speak.  The  crimson  flush  was  on  his  brow  ; 
the  tardy  glory  of  his  life  had  crowned  him.  She  stood,  scarlet 
in  her  woman's  shame,  in  the  low,  red  sunlight  under  the  scarlet 
tree. 

"  Why  don't  you  shame  me  ?  Why  don't  you  pay  me  back  ? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  I  told  you  years  ago  ?" 

She  pelted  the  sentences  at  him  over  her  turned  shoulder ;  she 
scourged  herself  with  the  smiting  questions,  in  their  rapid  tones 
like  lashings. 

But  before  she  had  finished,  he  held  her  in  his  arms.  In  his 
strong,  tender  arms,  that  had  waited  with  their  first,  pure  longing, 
all  these  years. 

"  God  gives,  at  last !  " 


Views  ;  Across  and  Back.  275 

The  golden  afternoon  light, — the  autumn  glow, — were  over  and 
about  them.  And  a  like  light  shone  radiant  on  the  hidden  beauty 
that  their  life  had  woven  ;  the  pattern  different  from  their  own 
purpose, — traced  after  God's  thought  for  them.  Had  any  bright- 
ness been  left  out  ? 

"  We  might  have  been  together  in  it  all.  So  many  years  we 
lost,"  said  Gabriel. 

"  We  have  been,  Gabriel ;  close  together,  always  in  our  hearts  ; 
the  years  are  not  lost !  "  So  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


VIEWS;   ACROSS   AND   BACK. 

IN  the  narrow  city  streets,  people  who  cannot  see  clouds  and 
fields,  and  hills,  see  something  else.  There  are  other  "  views  " 
for  them  than  the  brick-vistaed  bit  of  far-off  green,  or  the  pinched 
gleam  that  comes  to  them  of  the  broad  sunsets.  They  have 
human  life.  They  look  in  at  opening  doors  and  at  uncurtained 
windows.  They  have  views  into  homes,  imaginative  peeps  into 
hearts.  "  Across  the  way  "  there  is  always  something  ;  an  arrival, 
a  departure ;  a  funeral,  a  wedding ;  or  the  daily  uneventful  coming 
and  going  of  the  same  steps,  in  the  same  rounds, — the  apparition 
of  the  same  faces  at  the  same  panes, — that  make  the  quiet  con- 
tinuance of  things  that  seem  as  if  they  had  always  been  and  always 
must  be. 

There  are  lives  that  look  out  so,  and  borrow  ;  feed  continually 
upon  the  life  they  find  about  them ;  love,  and  pity,  and  surmise ; 
weave  histories  and  hopes, — find  all  the  play  of  human  interests 
and  affections,  in  the  little  cognizance  they  get  of  human  creatures, 
whose  real  hopes  are  but  a  guessed-out  story  ;  whose  very  names 
and  voices  they  may  never  come  to  know. 

Grace  Lowder  sat  so,  day  by  day,  in  her  little  corner  window, 
and  read,  as  best  she  could,  the  simple  chronicles  that  evolved 
themselves  in  her  sight ;  having  a  great  joy  and  interest  in  the 
activities  so  unlike  her  own  helplessness, — the  vigorous  living  she 
could  never  share. 

Diagonally,  across  the  square,  was  old  Grossman's ;  and  his 
second  story  corner  room,  that  corresponded  to  her  own,  had  a 
never-failing  fascination  of  mystery,  an  occasional  very  absorbing 
charm  of  attraction,  in  its  aspect. 

Nobody  could  get  anything  out  of  old  Grossman  :  he  let  his 
rooms  or  shut  them  up,  or  hid  himself  away  in  them,  in  his  surly, 
solitary  living,  and  "  nobody,"  as  Mrs.  Hopeley  said,  "  knew  the 
who,  or  the  how,  or  the  why,  or  the  wherefore."  There  was 


276  The  Gayworthys. 

something  odd,  and  quaint,  and  strangely  pleasant  to  Grace,  in 
the  glimpses  the  sunlight,  glancing  in  and  reflecting  itself  through 
the  windows,  opening  like  hers,  from  street  to  street,  gave  her, 
now  and  then,  of  this  opposite  chamber.  Sometimes,  for  months, 
— for  a  year  and  more,  even, — it  had  been  a  blank,  with  its  closed 
blinds  ;  then  the  life  came  to  it  again,  and  the  light  was  let  in,  and 
the  curious  feeling  came  over  her  that  friends  had  got  back. 

She  did  not  pry  with  intent  of  impertinence  ;  but  she  could  not 
help  looking,  and  when  the  day  poured  in  and  out,  or  the  lamp- 
light shone  there,  and  the  curtains  were  not  drawn,  as  they  hardly 
ever  were  for  hours  of  an  evening,  she  could  not  help  seeing. 

Antique-looking  pictures  ;  queer  things  in  cane  and  carved 
work ;  shells  ;  a  parrot  in  a  cage,  which,  whether  it  went  away  in 
a  trunk  when  the  lodgers  took  themselves  off,  or  was  secreted  in 
the  rear  with  old  Grossman,  Mrs.  Hopeley  avowed  herself  "  ccn- 
undered  "  to  tell ;  a  narrow  bed, — a  fixture  in  the  recess  of  the 
wall,  in  whose  like  space  was  her  own  closet, — overspread  with 
covering  of  some  strange,  rich,  oriental  stuff ;  a  painted  lantern 
hung  from  the  ceiling ;  over  the  mantel,  some  foreign-looking 
weapons  fastened  against  the  w-all  ;  books ;  instruments ;  spy- 
glasses ;  maps  ;  every  available  space  crowded  with  what  seemed 
the  heterogeneous  drift  of  a  roving  and  busy  life,  that  had  gathered 
itself,  somehow,  into  this  little  cove  of  temporary  rest. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  two  men,  as  curiously  unlike  each  other, 
as  any  other  two  things  there.  Father  and  son  ?  It  was  hardly 
possible.  Brothers  ?  It  could  not  be.  Master  and  servant  ?  The 
one  was  a  gentleman  ;  but  the  other  w<as  too  much  of  a  man. 
Companions  they  seemed,  and  friends ;  friends  that  had  found 
each  other  across  some  social  chasm  ;  there  was  a  rough  deference 
from  the  older  to  the  younger,  that,  beside  his  different  bearing, 
evidenced  this.  The  older  man  came  first,  always ;  sometimes  he 
would  be  there  for  days  and  weeks  alone.  Then  the  parrot  hung 
in  the  front  window,  and  he  would  sit  there  and  smoke  his  pipe  ; 
the  very  puffs  of  it  came,  often,  in  pleasant  weather,  through  the 
opened  sashes,  into  Grace's  room. 

Grace  used  to  sit  and  sew  ;  and  these  two,  with  a  dozen  yards 
between  them, — with  two  utterly  distinct  and  unknown  lives  hold- 
ing them  apart, — thought  many  thoughts  about  each  other  in  a 
dreamy  way,  that  was  hardly  an  active,  conscious  interest,  but  that 
made,  none  the  less,  a  real  place  for  each  in  the  other's  living 
sympathies. 

It  was  strange  how  much  they  thought.  The  gray,  rough  man 
wondered  at  himself,  half  impatiently,  when  he  found  himself, 
missing,  uneasily,  sometimes,  the  little  figure  seated  at  her  quiet 
tasks,  on  the  infrequent  days  when  she  worked  away  from  home. 
He  watched  her  coming  back  in  the  dusk,  after  her  clay's  labor ; 
and  he  saw  with  a  strong  man's  half-comprehending  pity,  that  the 
little  thing  was  lame.  She  knew  his  tread  upon  the  pavement, 


Views  ;  Across  and  Back.  277 

when  he  came  up  to  the  street ;  and  was  glad  when  he  went  in  at 
the  door,  and  listened  for  him  to  fling  up  the  window ;  for,  winter 
or  summer  he  did  that ;  he  was  a  hardy,  out-door  man,  who  could 
not  endure  stifling.  It  was  somehow  pleasant  to  her  to  know  that 
there  was  such  a  grand,  defiant  strength  in  the  world ;  to  her,  a 
feeble,  little  lonely  creature,  that  had  never  known  father  or 
brother.  She  felt  safer  in  the  nights,  when  these  neighbors  had 
come  back,  and  the  corner  room  was  occupied  ;  she  thought,  if 
there  was  a  fire,  or  robbers  should  get  in,  she  could  call  out  loud, 
and  help  would  come;  she  said  her  prayers  and  slept  trustfully; 
but  this  was  good  also. 

Once,  on  a  winter  day,  something  happened  that  caused  this 
feeling — of  pity  and  reliance — to  grow  suddenly,  from  a  secret 
sense,  into  a  proved  reality. 

The  narrow  sidewalks  were  slippery  with  ice  ;  more  slippery, 
in  these  by  streets,  with  long  "  slides  "  which  the  boys  had  made  ; 
ground  glassy  smooth,  with  fine-scored  lines,  tempting  to  all  young 
feet.  One  of  these  stretched  from  below  Mrs.  Hopeley's,  quite 
out,  along  the  fronts  of  two  houses,  to  the  curbstone  at  the  corner. 
The  widow  hadn't  the  heart  to  put  ashes  on  it ;  she  and  Grace 
both  loved  to  watch  the  merry  groups  that  gathered  there  ;  rosy 
little  girls  in  hoods  and  mittens,  with  a  run  and  a  hop,  and  a  stoop, 
launching  themselves,  with  small  momentum,  along  the  shining 
way ;  boys,  dashing  with  fearless  velocity,  upright,  from  end  to 
end  ;  even  a  grown  man,  now  and  then,  taking  it  in  his  way,  as  if 
he  didn't  mean  it,  an  old-times  feeling  getting  him,  nevertheless, 
by  the  heel.  They  had  only,  in  their  comings  and  goings,  to  keep 
the  inside ;  a  narrow  path  to  be  sure,  but  room  enough  ;  so  the 
slide  remained,  and  widened. 

And  late  one  afternoon, — late,  counting  by  the  rapidly-falling 
twilight  of  a  winter's  day, — Grace  Lowcler  and  her  crutch  came 
round  the  corner,  just  as  a  great  grocer's  boy,  with  big  boots,  and 
clumsy  elbows  set  akimbo,  and  a  parcel  under  his  arm,  plunged 
himself  along,  turning  about  and  ending  his  slide  backward  upon 
the  glare. 

The  wind  drew  through  the  street,  and  carried  Grace,  with  her 
insecure  footing,  a  few  steps  further  than  she  meant.  Exactly 
where  she  met  it  full, — big  boy,  and  bundle,  elbows,  boots,  and 
all.  The  little  figure  was  borne  down  ;  the  slender  crutch,  dashed 
from  her  hand,  flew  out  into  the  street,  and  a  wheel  went  over  it. 

"  Blast  me  !  "  came  a  strong  voice  from  above.  "  If  ever  I  see 
a  little  craft  like  that  capsized,  and  the  sticks  knocked  out  of  her 
that  fashion  ! " 

All  but  the  first  ejaculation  was  uttered  tortuously,  in  the 
narrow,  intestinal  windings  of  back  entry  and  staircase,  down 
which  the  speaker  plunged,  making  his  impetuous  way  out  of  the 
crooked  little  building  opposite  ;  and  then  a  stout  pair  of  arms 
were  round  the  delicate  shoulders,  and  there  was  a  breath,  pungent 


278  The  Gayworthys. 

with  pipe  odors,  but  with  nothing  worse,  close  to  the  girl's  cheek, 
and  she  was  lifted  tenderly, — not  to  her  feet,  poor  child !  that 
might  not  be, — but  to  an  upright  posture,  and  borne  across  the 
narrow,  slippery  sidewalk,  to  Mrs.  Hopeley's  door. 

Some  strange,  dormant  instinct  stirred  in  Grace  Lowder's  heart, 
as  she  balanced  herself  between  her  one  strong  foot  and  the  other 
hand,  catching  the  door-post,  and  was  forced  to  lean  also  partly 
against  the  stalwart  support  that  would  not  relinquish  her.  The 
sweet  womanly  sense  of  being  protected  by  manly  power, — the 
power  that  had  never  been  about  her  for  her  aid.  She  had  hardly 
so  much  as  had  the  touch  of  a  man's  hand,  the  strength  of  a  man's 
arm  given  her  momentarily,  in  all  her  crippled,  helpless,  creeping 
up  from  childhood.  Her  mother  was  all ;  and  she  had  been  gone 
for  years  ;  and  then  there  had  been  Mrs.  Hopeley.  Beyond  these 
there  had  been  nothing  between  her  and  the  Almighty  Strength. 

She  had  seen,  while  she  was  a  child,  other  children  led  along 
by  fathers'  hands ;  a  maiden,  she  had  looked  on  other  maidens 
kept  close  in  brotherly  care.  She  knew  there  was  all  this  in  the 
world, — for  others ;  this  beautiful  vigor,  made  to  offset  and  defend 
delicate  helplessness ;  and  with  her  helplessness,  that  was  beyond 
all  ordinary  need  of  woman,  she  stood  alone ;  with  her  crutch, 
and  her  Father  who  was  in  heaven. 

She  never  dreamed  of  the  dearest  earthly  reliance  of  all ;  thai 
of  course,  was  not  for  her ;  it  had  never  troubled  her  with  a  long- 
ing ;  but  if  she  could  have  had  &f  either,  to  care  tenderly  for  her  ; 
the  more,  that  she  was  his  poor  lame  daughter  ! 

This  instinct  it  was  that  warmed  and  stirred  with  the  strange- 
ness of  its  first  answering  ;  she  trembled  in  the  great  sturdy  arms. 
If  it  had  been  a  gentleman,  she  might  have  been  only  shy  and 
thankful ;  there  would  have  been,  perhaps,  no  heart-consciousness 
in  it ;  it  would  have  been  a  chance  help,  that  she  would  have 
known  would  be  forgotten,  the  instant  it  was  rendered ;  but  this 
was  not  a  gentleman ;  he  was  only  a  rough,  odd,  honest,  kindly 
man,  not  above  her  own  station ;  for  age,  he  might  have  been  her 
father ;  there  might  have  been  such  an  one,  if  God  had  willed  to 
cherish  her ;  to  feel  life  even,  brighter  to  himself  through  her, 
feeble  and  helpless  though  she  was.  All  this  did  not  come  to  her 
in  clear  order  as  she  leaned  there,  waiting,  for  that  moment ;  it 
was  a  confused  thrill,  born  of  thoughts  that  had  been  hers  btfore ; 
of  a  nameless  missing  she  had  felt  of  an  unknown  thing  desired. 

And  Blackmere — you  know  who  it  was,  as  well  as  I, — how  did 
he  feel  ?  The  man  whom  life  had  hardened  ;  who  had  had  no 
woman-love,  of  mother,  sister,  wife,  to  keep  him  gentle,  for  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  that  had  gone  over  him  in  a  stern, 
hopeless  striving  with  the  world  ? 

Three  years  ago,  a  girl's  hand  had  held  his  ;  a  girl's  voice  had 
spoken  gentle  words  to  him ;  words  of  a  sweet,  natural  faith,  that 
had  set  his  soul  for  the  time,  in  a  new  attitude  toward  God.  Since 


Views  ;  Across  and  Back.  279 

then,  he  had  been  less  hard ;  that  and  his  one  friendship,  fervent 
with  all  the  restrained  might  of  his  proud,  silent,  fiery  nature,  had 
begun  the  salvation  which  begins  by  a  little  sometimes,  and  afar 
off.  He  had  doubted  ;  doubted  fiercely,  and  upbraidingly,  as  one 
who  felt  there  ought  to  be  a  God  and  a  Guidance, — and  a  good  in 
the  world  ;  but  who  had  been  hard-used  and  bewildered,  till  he 
was  all  adrift  and  could  not  make  it  seem  to  be  ;  but  he  had  not 
positively  denied.  In  his  darkest  hour,  when,  with  a  seeming 
blasphemy,  he  had  wished  that  he  might  "  see  that  Person,"  it  had 
been  the  desperate  utterance  of  a  goaded  soul,  longing  instinctively, 
for  the  One  only  possible  Redress.  The  sight  of  a  pure,  young, 
fervent  faith  had  secretly  almost  assured  him  of  that  whereon  it 
rested.  The  needle  turned ;  there  must  then,  somewhere,  be  a 
great  Central  Pole. 

He  had  never  forgotten  the  old,  uncompromising  Bible  word, 
invested  with  such  new  and  gracious  meaning,  by  the  sudden  in- 
sight of  a  childlike,  unseared  spirit.  It  had  whispered  itself  to 
him  in  many  a  moment  since,  of  pain  and  danger,  when,  by  the 
stringent  call  of  the  hour,  he  had  been  "  elected  "  to  work  that 
only  such  as  he  could  do.  It  had  been  the  leaven  of  the  kingdom 
lying  in  his  soul ;  fermenting  slowly  to  the  softening  of  that  hard- 
ness which  was  more  an  outer  crust  of  habit,  now,  than  any  deeper 
induration.  There  was  a  place  in  him  to  be  touched  and  occupied 
with  a  gentle  interest ;  and  this  young  feeble  creature,  with  her 
quiet  life  that  showed  so  little  joy,  and  yet  such  large,  abiding 
peace, — with  its  beauty  of  cheerful  labor, — and  its  sunniness  of 
content, — had  reached  and  held  it. 

He  had  been  half  afraid  in  his  returns  from  sea,  that  there  might 
be  changes  at  the  old  corner.  That  the  little  needle-woman  with 
her  bright  window,  her  work  and  her  flowers,  might  be  replaced 
by  something  common  and  unlovely.  "My  little  girl,"  he  had  got 
to  call  her  in  his  thoughts.  So  far  as  this,  even,  the  human  tender- 
ness had  repossessed  him. 

She  would  have  no  right  to  be  gone  ;  she  belonged  to  him  by  a 
mysterious,  unspoken  tenure ;  yet  it  might  be ;  it  would  be  like 
all  the  rest.  This  old  bitterness  tinged  his  thought  as  he  came 
homeward ;  saying  nothing  of  his  one  secret  hope  and  longing ; 
cherishing  it  jealously,  in  silence  ;  bracing  himself  half  resentfully, 
in  advance,  against  the  disappointment  and  the  end  of  it,  that  would 
come  sometime, — might  come  now ;  wearing  so,  always,  a  certain 
savageness  and  defiance  still,  when  he  neared  the  home-port  and 
came  sailing  in.  He  cheered  up  again  and  was  grimly  jolly,  when 
he  had  once  cast  anchor  at  old  Grossman's,  and  taken  a  glance 
around  at  its  bearings,  and  found  the  landmarks  safe. 

"  I  might  have  had  a  child  like  her,"  Ned  Blackmere  said  to 
himself.  "  I  ought  to.  Wasn't  I  made  strong  to  take  care  of 
something  like  that  ?  " 

So  he  had  sat  at  his  window  and  kept  his  secret  life,  and  smoked 


280  The  Gay  wort  hys. 

his  pipe  ;  and  there  was  this  wonderful  soul-asking-  and  answering 
between  those  two,  who,  until  to-day,  neighbors  for  years,  had 
never  interchanged  an  outward  greeting. 

"  Land  alive  !  Why,  Grace,  child,  what's  happened  you  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Hopeley,  opening  the  door  and  reaching  out  one  hand  to  help 
her  in,  while  she  hurriedly  settled  her  cap-ribbon  with  the  other, 
at  sight  of  the  "  opposite  gentleman,"  as  she  always  called  him. 

Blackmere  somewhat  precipitately  resigned  his  charge  to  the 
good  woman ;  indeed  Grace  was  aware  of  a  certain  quick  move- 
ment that  was  not  quite  like  his  first  gentleness.  He  was  evidently 
in  haste  to  be  off  without  words. 

"  Now,  of  all  things ! "  resumed  the  voluble  house-lady,  as  he 
dashed  across  the  street  again  with  only  a  half-muttered,  unintel- 
ligible reply  to  Grace's  eagerly  begun  acknowledgment, — "  to 
think  he  should  go  like  that,  as  if  a  gale  of  wind  had  took  him, 
and  I  never  so  much  as  saying  '  I'm  beholden,'  nor  finding  out  his 
name  to  call  him  by  it  again !  Well,  it  ain't  all  in  salting  tails  ! 
You  mayn't  catch  the  bird  no  more,  notwithstanding ! " 

"  Why,  you've  lost  your  crutch,  child,  so  you  have.  And  to 
be  sure,  there's  the  opposite  gentleman — to  think  I  shouldn't  be 
able  to  call  him  like  a  Christian  after  all,  and  so  Christian  and  more 
as  he's  behaved — a  standing  on  the  other  corner  with  the  door 
blowed  to  and  the  latch  ketched,  and  no  hat  on,  and  the  pieces  in  his 
hand  !  Maybe  he'll  come  back.  No  !  there's  old  Grossman,  and 
he's  got  it  in  and  took  'em  likewise.  Well,  here's  the  amberella!" 

And  so  Grace  got  upstairs.  That  evening,  by  the  bright  light 
across  the  way  through  the  heedlessly  unshaded  window,  she  saw, 
as  she  drew  down  her  own  blind,  her  new-old  friend  without  a 
name,  busy  with  the  splintered  bits  of  her  old  crutch,  trying, 
evidently,  if  it  would  join.  But  he  shook  his  head  over  it,  and 
made  up  his  face  in  the  shape  of  a  whistle ;  and  she  would  not 
stand  watching,  so  she  pulled  the  cambric  shade  down,  and  settled 
herself  behind  it  at  her  work,  with  many  little  curious  thoughts 
glancing  through  her  mind  as  to  what  he  might  do  next. 

Early  the  following  morning  as  Mrs.  Hopeley  was  lighting  her 
fire  and  brushing  up  her  hearth  below,  there  came  a  ring.  The 
brisk  little  body  answered  it  in  a  twinkling.  Yet,  quick  as  she  was, 
the  opposite  gentleman  was  over  opposite  again,  and  on  the  door- 
stone  sat  a  basket,  and  beside  it  a  wonderful  thing  with  a  crutch- 
top  to  it, — Grace's  very  old  crutch-top  with  the  worn  black  velvet 
cover, — but  such  a  stick!  A  slight,  dark,  rich,  strong  staff,  with 
queer,  delicate  carving  all  up  and  down  it,  and  a  smell  of  strange 
spicery  clinging  to  it,  and  effusing  even  in  the  frosty  morning  air. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  conundered,  now!"  she  exclaimed,  taking  them 
up  with  a  sudden  hesitancy,  and  a  glance  toward  old  Grossman's 
closed  door  and  the  window  above  it  where  the  curtain  was  down 
this  time. 

"  Grace,  here's  the  elegantest  thing !     Stop,  I'll  bring  it  up  to 


Views  ;  Across  and  Back.  281 

you,  and  take  away  the  amberella.  And  a  big  basket  of  great 
oranges  as  red  as  fire  !  You  never  see  sitch  !  Come  all  in  a  whiff 
and  gone  again  like  the  what's-his-name-on-two-sticks  !  " 

There  were  tears  in  Grace's  eyes  as  she  held  the  beautiful  staff 
in  her  hand.  Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  to  her  before  in 
all  her  life.  There  was  something  in  her  heart  as  she  received 
this  gift  dropped  for  her  at  her  door,  such  as  perhaps  never  stirred 
in  yours,  young  lady,  on  whose  table  waits  each  morning  some 
dainty  offering  of  homage,  and  who  count  up  your  bouquets  and 
your  lovers  together. 

She  should  never  lean  on  this,  but  it  would  seem  to  her  like  a 
kindly  human  strength.  She  had  a  friend  in  the  world  ;  there  was 
a  thought  for  her  in  a  great,  generous  bosom  ;  the  world  was  very 
rich  to-day  for  this  child  who  had  never  had  father  or  brother ; 
who  would  never  have  a  lover. 

The  basket  was  to  go  back.  Grace  and  Mrs.  Hopeley  decided 
this,  and  the  girl  gathered  her  flowers, — her  one  splendid  white 
lily  with  its  golden  spike,  in  the  broad  green  leaf  against  which  it 
grew, — some  tender  abutilons,  like  drops  of  redder  gold,  purple 
heliotropes  and  little  English  violets,  a  tea  rosebud,  just  swelling 
into  its  brief  perfection,  and  some  trailing  bits  of  yellow  blossom- 
ing vine,  and  laid  them  in  it,  a  mute,  delicate  thanks. 

Mrs.  Hopeley  hoped  great  things  from  the  instant  in  which  she 
should  deliver  it.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  stood  upon  her 
crusty  neighbor's  doorstone  and  rung  a  summons. 

The  old  man  came. 

"  For  Mr. ."  hesitating,  so  that  anybody  but  old  Grossman 

must  have  suggested  a  name.  But  he  stood  with  his  sharp  nose 
protruding  from  a  jealous  crack,  and  waited  for  her  to  say  it  out  by 
herself  if  she  could,  or  give  it  up.  He  would  have  waited  a  week, 
morosely  reveling  in  her  discomfiture. 

"  For  the  opposite — the  up-stairs — gentleman,  I  mean,"  faltered 
the  poor  woman,  all  of  a  quiver,  and  in  utter  rout. 

Grossman  grunted  and  took  it  in. 

"  It  ain't  all  in  chances,  if  you  can't  turn  "em,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Hopeley  to  herself,  recrossing.  "And  there's  some  old  sticks 
would  chock  anybody's  wheels." 

"  I've  gin  it  in  ;  but  I  don't  know  who  to,  howbeit,  more  nor 
ever."  Mrs.  Hopeley 's  adverbs  were  her  colloquial  accomplish- 
ment. They  effected  a  certain  point  and  dazzle  by  their  recurrence, 
like  skilful  dashes  upon  printed  calico. 

After  this,  things  went  on  as  of  old.  The  "other  gentleman" 
as  Mrs.  Hopeley  called  him,  in  her  bewildered  paucity  of  knowl- 
edge, in  contradistinction  to  the  "  opposite  gentleman,"  who  was 
more  regularly  opposite, — the  gentleman,  to  Grace's  distinctive 
perception, — came ;  and  the  corner  room  was  bright  and  cheery  for 
many  weeks ;  then,  a  trunk  and  two  chests  were  wheeled  away, 
one  morning,  and  the  blinds  were  shut. 


282  The  Gayworthys. 

Mrs.  Hopeley  had  gone  out  to  market ;  the  opposite  gentleman 
knew  this,  doubtless ;  for  he  came  very  deliberately,  across  the 
street,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  stopped  upon  the  widow's  door- 
step. Before  he  rang,  Grace,  with  her  light  spring,  and  the  quick 
tapping  of  her  deftly  handled  crutch,  was  on  the  stairs ;  and  as  he 
rang,  she  opened  to  him. 

"  I'm  going  away,"  began  the  opposite  gentleman,  and  paused. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you — ."     He  lifted  his  eyes,  rather,  at  this. 

"  To  come  and  let  me  say  good-by  I  mean,  and  thank  you,"  said 
Grace  hurriedly  and  impetuously,  following  up  the  awkward  am- 
biguity of  her  first  words.  "  I  have  wanted  to  so  much." 

"  I  came  to  see  if  you'd  do  something  for  me  while  I'm  gone," 
said  the  neighbor-at-intervals,  ignoring  the  thanks.  "  I'd  be 
glad, — if  you  haven't  any  disliking  to  such — that  you'd  take  care 
of  my  parrot  for  me.  She's  lonesome  when  she's  nobody  to  talk 
to."  ' 

Grace's  eyes  glistened  with  a  quick  pleasure.  Something  child- 
like in  it,  of  pure  delight,  as  well  as  warm  readiness  of  womanly 
gratitude.  A  parrot  had  been  to  her  childhood  a  thing  of  bright, 
fairy-like  mystery.  To  have  it  there  among  her  flowers, — to  hear 
its  half-human  chatter, — to  teach  it  some  new  phrases, — to  stroke 
its  gold-green  plumage,  and  feed  it  from  her  fingers  as  she  had 
watched  her  friend  do, — why  it  would  be  a  joy, — and  she  said  so. 

"  Then  I'll  bring  it  over." 

But  coming  back,  cage  in  hand,  he  met  Mrs.  Hopeley  herself, 
with  basket  and  brown  paper  parcel. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr. ?  " 

"  Good  morning,  ma'am.  I've  brought  my  parrot  for  your 
daughter.  She'll  keep  it  for  me,  she  says,  if  you've  no  objection. 
I'm  going  away." 

"  Look  here,  sir ! "  cried  the  over-aggrieved  woman,  bursting 
forth.  "  I  guess  we  don't  understand  one  another,  clear.  She 
ain't  my  daughter." 

"  For  Miss Grace  then,"  said  the  strange  man,  with  a  sort  of 

difficulty,  but  never  caring  a  whit  as  to  Grace  who.  No  interchange 
of  facts  to  be  looked  for  here. 

Mrs.  Hopeley  sighed  a  loud  sigh  of  impatience. 

"  Oh  dear !  it  was  bad  enough  before  ;  but  this  is  getting  to  be 
like  the  House  that  Jack  built ! " 

"  If  it's  any  trouble — "  began  the  neighbor,  quite  abashed. 

"  Lor'  no,  it  ain't  the  parrot.  Not  in  the  least.  But  I'm  bound 
to  say  I've  been  put  to  great  inconveniences  along  of  you  ;  and  to 
such  roundabouts  as  is  very  tiresome.  The  opposite  gentleman 
was  bad  enough ;  but  the  opposite  gentleman's  parrot,  and  all  that, 
•why  you  see  it  grows  bigger.  And  the  kinder  you  are  the  more  so. 
And,  moreover,  after  you're  gone  away,  it  can't  be  the  opposite 
gentleman,  withal.  It's  the  want  of  the  name,  sir.  You  couldn't 
so  much  as  get  the  good  of  a  tin  dipper  without  one." 


Opposite  Again  ;  At  the  Lesser  Distance.     283 

A  half  smile  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  man's  white  teeth  ;  while 
a  shade,  at  the  same  instant,  seemed  to  flit  over  the  eyes. 

"  My  name's  never  been  a  very  lucky  one,"  he  said,  "  The  bird's 
name's  Poll.  Won't  that  do  ?  And  as  to  the  rest  of  it,  I  shall  be 
'opposite'  enough.  I'm  going  to  China." 

He  put  the  bright  ring  of  the  cage  into  Grace's  hand,  as  he 
spoke,  and  turned  off.  Before  Mrs.  Hopeley  could  find  her  next 
words,  he  was  striding  down  the  street  and  had  mixed  himself  and 
disappeared  in  the  busy,  crowded,  shifting  line  of  pedestrians  that 
streamed  up  and  down,  to  and  from  a  great  center  of  labor  and  trade. 

He  could  not  forget  that  a  dozen  years  ago,  the  name  of  Edward 
Blackmere  had  been  put  in  capitals  and  cried  through  these  very 
streets,  as  the  name  of  a  man  "  arrested  for  the  brutal  murder  of 
his  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

OPPOSITE  AGAIN  ;   AT  THE   LESSER  DISTANCE. 

A  YOUNG  lady  in  a  crape  bonnet  and  veil,  at  Mrs.  Hopeley's 
door.  A  pleasant  voice  at  the  stair-head  welcoming  her,  as  the 
door  was  opened  by  the  cheery  widow,  and  the  comer  put  aside  the 
folds  from  her  face  and  entered.  It  was  Sarah  Gair,  come  for  her 
"  bit  of  brown  bread." 

One  year  ago  there  had  been  a  little  paragraph  in  the  Selport 
papers,  about  "  one  of  our  most  respected  citizens."  It  had  been 
headed  "  Sudden  Death."  Jane  Gair  was  a  widow. 

A  widow,  with  less  of  worldly  fortune  than  she  was  allowed  to 
know  ;  for  Mr.  Gair's  property,  like  that  of  many  a  man  stricken 
suddenly  down  in  the  midst  of  business  risks  and  complications,  had 
dwindled  in  the  "  settling,"  and  Jane,  a  confirmed  nervous  invalid, 
to  whom  quiet  of  mind  \vas  vitally  essential,  was  simply  to  be 
waited  on  and  provided  for, — not  burdened  with  any  care  or  doubt. 
Reuben  Gair's  confidential  friend  and  lawyer,  consulting  only  with 
her  young  daughter,  and  making  smooth  and  comfortable  reports 
to  the  widow,  when  she  was  able  to  attend,  managed  everything. 

There  had  been  two  or  three  unfavorable  years  ;  there  had  been 
failures  and  bad  debts ;  losses  at  sea  ;  Mr.  Gair's  death  had  hap- 
pened, or  resulted,  at  one  of  those  critical  points  of  a  mercantile 
history,  when  life  and  credit  are  everything ;  when  the  wheels  of 
a  great  enterprise  are  in  full  and  complicated  revolution,  and,  con- 
tinuing so,  may  work  out  safety  ;  but,  stopping,  there  comes  ruin. 
Out  of  all  the  merchants'  various  assets, — including  twenty 
thousand  dollars  of  his  wife's  inheritance,  from  the  sale  of  real 
estate,  which  had  been  merged,  temporarily,  with  his  business  risks, 
and  smaller  sums,  invested  with  moneys  of  his  own,  in  certain 
high-paying  shares, — there  was  a  bare  nominal  surplus,  when  debts 


284  The  Gayworthys. 

were  paid.  The  house  in  Hill  Street  remained  to  them ;  but  mere 
was  a  heavy  mortgage  upon  it,  with  only  two  years  to  run.  A 
present  home  over  their  heads,  and  the  interest  of  some  fifteen 
thousand  dollars,  remaining  to  Mrs.  Gair,  was  all. 

Plainly,  the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  sell  their  house,  pay 
off  the  mortgage,  add  the  residue  of  the  money  to  what  they  had, 
and  go  where  they  could  live  upon  it.  But  this  could  not  be  done 
immediately.  Mr.  Gair  had  died  in  the  spring  ;  the  summer  was 
over  before  affairs  were  thoroughly  made  clear  ;  and  the  only  way 
to  avoid  a  dangerous  shock  to  the  widow  was  to  make  her  health 
itself  the  pretext  for  removal. 

"Next  summer  we  can  do  it,"  said  Say.  "  For  the  winter  we 
must  manage  somehow." 

Summer  and  winter  made  a  year.  Two-thirds  of  their  dividends 
were  absorbed  by  mortgage  interest ;  and  their  capital  diminished 
by  the  cost  of  their  year's  living.  And  all  this  was  a  secret  pain  ; 
an  unshared  dread  and  burden. 

Sarah  Gair  came  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  bright  youth,  to 
know  the  grinding  of  that  hardest  kind  of  poverty,  which  is  not  to 
be  confessed  and  grappled  with  openly,  but  which  gnaws  in  secret 
under  a  comfortable  outside  ;  demanding  retrenchment  as  the  sole 
salvation,  when  it  is  hard  to  see  how  an  adequate  retrenchment  can 
begin.  And  Mrs.  Gair's  whims,  her  invalid  comforts,  medical  at- 
tendance and  nursing,  were  expensive. 

It  was  well  known  in  the  city  that  "  Gair  had  not  left  so  much 
as  was  expected ; "  but  nobody  supposed  them  poor ;  "  she  had 
money,"  they  said  ;  and  Say  was  proud  ;  she  would  not  even  let  the 
kind  aunts  at  Hilbury  know  that  a  piece  of  the  patrimony  had 
melted  away;  they  lived  on  ;  her  mother  must  not  be  worried  ;  and 
she  bore  what  there  was  to  bear  alone. 

Her  mother  had  her  nurse  and  lived  in  her  own  room  ;  she  did 
not  know  that  there  was  only  a  girl  hired  "  for  general  housework," 
to  help  Say  in  all  the  rest  of  the  house ;  and  that  the  delicacies  she 
called  for,  at  capricious  hours,  according  to  her  uncertain  appetite, 
were  mostly  prepared  by  Say's  own  hands,  while  she,  perhaps,  was 
fretting  that  she  did  not  stay  and  read  to  her,  or  bring  her  work  and 
sit  where  she  could  see  her. 

"  She  was  all  pain,"  she  said;  and  possessed  with  restlessness. 
The  very  bed  was  full,  it  seemed  to  her,  of  misery  ;  when  she  lay 
there.  It  had  got  into  the  pillows  and  blankets,  like  a  plague  ;  it 
was  associated  with  every  line  and  color  on  the  walls  ;  with  the 
folds  of  the  curtains,  and  the  pattern  of  the  carpet.  She  had  the 
furniture  moved  about,  and  changed,  to  break  the  fancy  up.  She 
was  put  into  another  room,  while  her  own  was  freshly  papered. 
This  had  been  done  twice,  already,  since  her  husband's  death. 
There  were  repetitions  in  the  first  designs,  that  wearied  her  so. 
She  had  got  the  limit  of  the  block,  and  knew  just  where  the  pat- 
tern began  again ;  and  the  pain,  she  said,  came  in  twinges  with  it. 


Opposite  Again  ;  At  the  Lesser  Distance.     285 

This  was  Jane  Gair  at  forty-six  ;  who  at  thirty,  had  been  the  fair, 
unworn,  happy-tempered  woman,  who  took  all  things  easily,  and 
for  whom  the  world  went  smoothly  round. 

Spring  had  come  round  again  ;  the  early  spring,  whose  balmy 
clays  of  promise  alternate  with  chill  and  storm.  Mrs.  Gair  alter- 
nated to  better  and  worse  with  the  weather.  Say  thought  and 
planned ;  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  Hilbury  ;  but  she  had 
only  mentioned  it  once,  and  her  mother  had  had  a  very  bad  day 
after  it.  "  She  never  could  go  there  ;  the  high  air  of  the  hills 
would  kill  her ;  she  wrondered  Say  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
Couldn't  they  go  abroad  ?  She  should  be  better  when  the  warm 
weather  came  ;  and  she  would  get  away  from  this  miserable  New 
England  climate  altogether."  Say  sighed,  and  could  say  no  more. 
What  ought  she  to  do  ?  The  end  must  come  sometime,  and  her 
mother  must  know ;  it  would  be  worse  then,  for  there  would  no 
longer  be  anything  to  save. 

When  she  could  get  away  for  an  hour,  she  went  for  her  "  bit  of 
bro-.vn  bread."  She  had  got  an  hour  now. 

The  day  was  lovely  ;  a  jewel  of  warmth  and  sunshine  set  between 
bleak  jaggednesses  of  March  misery.  Grace's  window  was  wide 
open ;  there  were  crocuses,  yellow  and  purple  in  the  long  narrow 
box  upon  the  ledge  ;  the  parrot  gyrated  incessantly  about  her  cage, 
clinging  with  clumsy  beak  and  claw,  and  "  picking  her  way,"  lit- 
erally, with  slow  creep,  up  and  down,  and  around  ;  chattering, 
like  a  saucy  child,  all  the  phrases  that  she  knew ;  whistling  to 
the  boys  in  the  street ;  crying,  like  the  "  thousand  cats ;  "  com- 
porting herself,  altogether,  with  the  utmost  self-assertion  and  ob- 
streperousness. 

"  My — good — friend  !  How  dye'  do  ?  Thank  you  !  thank  you  ! 
Gone  to  China !  Welcome  home  !  What's  your  name  ?  What's 
your  name?"  The  last  query  had  been  wickedly  put  into  the 
bird's  mouth  by  the  baffled  Mistress  Hopeley,  greatly  to  the  chagrin 
and  trouble  of  Grace,  who  had  striven  in  vain  to  make  her  drop 
and  forget  it. 

Say  sat  down,  in  the  sunshine,  among  the  flowers.  A  look  of 
rest  came  over  her  face.  A  very  sweet  face  it  had  grown  to  be, 
though  a  little  of  the  old  brightness  was  somehow  gone.  She  had 
used  to  seem  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  flower  springing  to  a 
breeze;  there  were  such  quick,  little,  graceful  tossings  of  the  well 
poised  head,  such  slight,  incessant  motions  of  life  and  gladness, 
in  which  the  fairness  of  feature  and  lovely  coloring  gleamed  like 
that  beauty  of  a  wind-swayed  blossom.  Now,  there  was  a  quiet- 
ness ;  and  endurance ;  the  patient  look  of  womanhood  with  its 
burden  on.  Looking  at  the  young  creature,  you  felt  that  the  first 
glow  of  youth,  that  mostly  goes  quickly  enough,  was  already  gone 
from  her. 

"  I'm  glad  to  get  here,  Grace.  You  don't  know  the  comfort  it  is. 
How  sunny  you  are,  to-day  !  " 


286  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Aren't  we  ?  It's  sunny  all  down  the  street  to  where  the  trees 
are  budding  to  make  my  summer  'view'  again.  Isn't  it  bright 
and  sunny  over  the  way  ?  It's  only  at  this  time  in  the  day  that 
it  ever  really  is.  And  the  blinds  are  opened.  He's  coming  back, 
Say ! " 

"  How  much  you  think  of  that  strange  friend  of  yours,  Grace  !  " 

"  I  haven't  many  friends,  you  know.  And  only  to  think  of  one 
that  is  a  real  friend,  living  anywhere  on  the  earth,  with  a  thought 
for  me, — it's  a  great  joy  !  I  think  it  is  a  way  God  gives  His  own 
love  to  us." 

"  Just  twice  he  has  spoken  to  you.  And  then  he  went  away,  and 
has  been  gone  a  year.  It's  a  queer  friendship,  Grade." 

"  It  is  just  the  friendship  that  does  me  the  most  good.  I  don't 
think  I  could  quite  bear  having  a  very  good  friend  near  me  all  the 
time,  like  people  who  have  been  used  to  it.  A  little  lasts  me  a 
great  while;  and  I  want  my  quiet  thoughts  about  it.  It's  like  those 
weeks  at  Hilbury.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne  much  more. 
I  wanted  to  run  back  here  to  my  little  lonely  nest,  with  the  treas- 
ure I  had  got.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  ever  do  about  heaven, 
Say!" 

"  I'm  glad  you've  had  Hilbury,"  said  Say.  "  I  knew  Aunt  Jo- 
anna would  remember.  I  wish  I  could  see  her  in  her  home  ;  but  I 
don't  know  when  I  shall  ever  get  there,  now." 

"  It's  as  lovely  as  anything  can  be,"  said  Grace.  "  And  we  had 
such  busy  work  to  make  it !  There  was  nearly  everything  to  do  ; 
for  there'd  only  been  common  tidiness  for  years  and  years  ;  nobody 
to  really  put  a  life  into  it  till  she  came.  And  it  kept  smiling  out  so, 
with  every  new  thing  and  touch  ;  and  yet,  the  old  home  expression 
stayed  through  all.  '  It  was  the  glorified  body  of  the  old  home,' 
Mr.  Hartshorne  said.  Such  a  grand  man  and  woman  as  they  are  ! 
They  would  glorify  any  place.  And  each  of  them  thinks  it  is  all  the 
other.  I'm  only  puzzled  to  think  how  they  endure  such  happiness, 
when  it  nearly  broke  my  heart  to  stay  and  see  it.  It's  well  there 
are  still  places  for  such  as  I,  who  can't  bear  being  too  glad." 

"  Grace  ! — Oh,  Miss  Gair  !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot,  indeed. 
My  head's  been  so  full  of  the  spring  cleaning,  which  is  just  the 
most  muddling-up  thing  in  the  world,  indubitably." 

"  Did  you  want  me,  Mrs.  Hopeley  ?  "  asked  Grace. 

"  It  was  only  the  old  carpet.  It's  been  shuck  and  brought  in, 
and  it's  tore  rather  more  than  I  looked  for.  I  thought  if  you 
weren't  too  busy,  peradventure, — but  I  see  you  can't." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Hopeley  !  it  isn't  that  I'm  very  busy, — but  let  it  be  till 
to-morrow,  please.  It's  sure  to  rain  after  this  pleasant  weather  ; 
and  we  must  be  in  the  window  to-day,  Polly  and  I  when  our 
friend  comes  back.  I'm  sure  it's  all  the  getting  home  there  is  for 
him." 

"  You're  sure  of  the  most  unprovable  sort  of  things,  Grace 
Lowder,  forevermore,"  said  the  widow  in  her  cheery  way,  coming 


Opposite  Again  ;  At  the  Lesser  Distance.    287 

over  to  the  girl's  side.  "There's  some  bird  in  the  air  besides  Polly 
that  tells  you  stories,  with  neither  a  for  nor  a  because  to  them. 
The  carpet's  nothing,  to  be  sure ;  it  can  wait  as  well  as  not, 
for  a  rainy  day,  only — well,  now !  as  true  as  I'm  a  living 
sinner ! " 

"  Gone  to  China !  Welcome  home !  Thank  you,  thank  you  ! 
What's  your  name  ?  What's  your  name  ?  " 

Edward  Blackmere  stood  upon  the  step  of  Grossman's  door. 
He  looked  up,  giving  a  low,  familiar  whistle,  whereto  the  parrot 
responded  with  vociferation. 

"  Grace ! "  cried  Say,  shrinking  back  suddenly  into  her  chair,  "  is 
that ?  " 

"  That  is  my  friend,"  said  Grace,  with  simple,  joyous  warmth  ; 
her  beaming  face  turned  full  toward  him,  with  a  timid  inclination 
of  the  head,  to  which  he  answered  with  a  chivalrous  lifting  of  his 
cap,  and  a  flash  of  soft,  unused  light  in  the  dark,  upraised  eyes. 
They  were  gray  hairs  he  uncovered,  saluting  the  young  girl ;  but 
the  instant,  happy  look  was  new  and  young  as  hers. 

Say,  by  a  quick  motion,  let  fall  the  folds  of  crape,  to  shield  her 
side-face  from  the  sunlight, 

"  And  there,"  said  Grace,  still  looking  out,  "  is  his  friend,  the 
gentleman." 

Say  glanced  again,  and  saw  that  it  was  Gershom  Vorse. 

Nearly  four  years  it  had  been  since  she  had  seen  him.  It  gave 
her  a  quick,  bewildering  sensation,  seeing  him  now  and  in  such 
manner.  Like  that  which  one  has  at  times,  at  sudden  waking 
from  a  reverie,  in  which  familiar  things  have  been  resolved  to  their 
ideal  forms ;  in  which  one's  actual  surroundings  have  been  the 
impalpable  scenery  of  one's  dreams  ;  when,  with  a  flash,  one  starts 
to  find  them  real  and  at  hand. 

From  her  inner  life  he  had  never  been  absent.  She  had  waited 
with  that  strange  patience  that  only  women,  and,  of  women,  per- 
haps a  few,  not  all,  abide  in  ;  putting  by  the  hope  that  had  never, 
indeed,  been  born  ;  nerved  on  one  side,  by  a  human,  feminine  in- 
dignation, against  weakness  of  sorrow ;  feeling  that  she  had  been 
unjustly  dealt  with  ;  half  cured  of  her  love,  or  the  sting  of  it,  by  a 
^tender  contempt  of  the  warp  and  prejudice  that  had  wounded  it, 
and  that  must,  sometime,  be  done  away ;  of  the  soul  that  could  so 
be  narrowed  by  mistake ;  a  little  of  her  reverence,  which  is  the 
essence  of  pure  womanly  passion,  gone  from  her  thought  of  him 
whom  she  saw  not  nobly  reverent  and  believing  toward  heaven  and 
fellow-men, — for  a  woman  ever  most  warmly  reveres,  most  nearly 
worships,  the  manhood  that  stands  lowliest  before  God  ;  yet  look- 
ing always  onward  to  something  that,  in  the  long  history  of  their 
lives,  here  or  in  heaven,  should  surely  come ;  knowing  that  they 
were  not  done  with  each  other  until  God  willed,  and  that  the 
crooked  should  first  be  made  straight,  and  that  which  she  had 
prayed  for,  she  should  be  given  to  do. 


288  The  Gayworthys. 

A  strange,  still  excitement  stirred  her,  looking  down  upon  him, — 
herself  unseen,  unthought  of, — claiming  him  in  her  heart,  from 
these  neighbors  who  talked  of  and  guessed  about  him,  not  knowing 
even  his  name.  This  was  his  home  then.  This  was  his  fixed, 
separate  life,  and  the  place  of  it  ?  A  pang  came  with  that  thought. 
A  jealousy  of  people  who  had  to  do  with  him,  she  being  shut  out. 
Of  old  Grossman  even,  who  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  to  whom 
he  nodded  as  he  went  in.  He  was  set  off  suddenly,  into  a  stranger- 
hood.  He  was  wholly  gone  away  from  her, — from  them  all.  Gone 
away  utterly,  though  making  for  himself  an  abiding  place  here  in 
the  same  town,  with  the  distance  of  only  a  few  streets  between 
them  ;  a  distance  he  had  never  crossed  to  come  to  her. 

A  chill  began  to  come  over  her ;  over  her  old  feeling  for  him, 
close,  even,  upon  the  first  quick,  warm  tremble  of  surprise.  She 
had  not  dreamed  of  this.  She  had  thought  of  him  on  board  his 
ship, — away  in  foreign  lands, — at  the  farm  in  Hilbury  ;  the  old 
memories  had  held  their  places,  and  the  old  scenes  were  haunted. 
But  this  new  place, — these  altered  surroundings, — this  strange, 
isolated,  secret  living  ?  It  made  a  difference.  It  touched  rudely 
upon  the  old  charm.  Place  and  association  have  curiously  to  do 
with  human  sentiments.  Seeing  him  here,  it  was  possible  to  see 
him  in  a  new  light  ;  to  discern  more  sharply  that  to  which  his 
character  had  grown.  His  very  way  of  life,  when  it  was  a  thing 
for  him  to  choose,  had  become  an  embodied  distrust.  It  was  un- 
worthy. Say  felt  a  something  widening  between  them  that  was 
worse  than  time,  or  distance,  or  mistake.  Felt  this  with  one  side 
her  nature,  that  recoiled  from  one  side  his,  even  while  the  old 
tenderness  claimed  him  jealously,  yearned  over  him,  wrought  itself 
into  a  very  pain  of  unrest,  seeing  him  so  near  again,  and  yet  so  far, 
far  off. 

Five  minutes  had  gone  by  while  she  sat  and  thought  these 
thoughts.  And  then  Grace  Lowder  turned  her  happy  face  round 
on  her.  And  saw  nothing.  Only  a  tired,  troubled  look  ;  a  flush 
replacing  the  first  paleness  ;  and  a  restless  shine  in  the  eyes. 

"  I've  been  selfish  ;  tell  me  your  worries." 

She  turned  wholly  round  as  she  spoke  ;  and  reaching  her  hand 
along  the  wainscot,  dropped  herself  off  the  little  raised  window- 
dais  to  Say's  side. 

"Tell  me  your  worries,  dear." 

"  It's  no  use,"  said  Say,  with  a  piteous,  half-absent  impatience. 
"  They  can't  be  told.  Unless  I  could  tell  you  all  my  life,  and  what 
makes  them  worries." 

"  All  our  lives  we  can't  tell  each  other  if  we  would.  Every  one 
of  us  is  a  secret  after  all.  But  the  little  bits  we  can  tell, — they  are 
comforts  between  friends." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  the  last  ten  minutes,  Grace,  and  what  has  come 
to  me  sitting  here  beside  you." 

Come  to  her  in  her  thoughts,  of  course,  while  Grace  had  selfishly 


Eben's  Discourse.  289 

kept  her  waiting ;  nothing  else  had  come  to  her ;  no  other  possi- 
bility entered  the  little  needlewoman's  mind.  So  secret,  truly,  are 
our  lives. 

"  Tell  me  just  what  you  choose,  dear.  Tell  me  nothing  if  you 
like.  But  let  me  comfort  you."  So  she  petted  and  soothed  her, 
mutely,  and  stroked  her  like  a  tired  child,  holding  down  her  head 
beside  her,  but  not  looking  her  any  more  in  the  face,  till  the  tears 
came  quietly  into  Say's  restless  eyes,  and  brought  their  sorrowful 
calm  with  them. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  my  mother,"  she  said,  and  rose  up,  brushing 
the  wet  off  her  cheeks,  and  laying  hold  of  the  long  crape  veil  to 
draw  it  down. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  cheated  Grace  of  something  that  belonged 
to  her.  Of  this  knowledge  that  she  could  have  given  her.  But 
then  a  bitter,  unreasonable  feeling  came, — of  what  did  Grace  cheat 
her  ?  What,  rather,  usurp  from  ner, — sitting  there  in  her  window, 
among  her  flowers,  and  making  friends  across  the  way  ?  Seeing 
them  come  out  and  in, — him  and  Gershom, — while  she  must  go 
and  make  no  sign  ;  she,  to  whom  they  belonged  by  the  thougnt 
and  knowledge  of  years, — by  the  love  of  a  life? 

Gershom  Vorse  saw  a  figure,  thick-veiled,  robed  in  black, — 
come  down  the  widow's  step  and  turn  away,  quickly.  An  em- 
ployer of  the  little  seamstress,  Blackmere's  window-friend,  he 
thought.  Come  to  order  more  black  braver}'.  "  What  a  parade 
grief  makes  to  hide  itself  behind !  What  a  bother  of  stitches  to 
sew  up  a  heart-rent !  If  people  really  believed  half  they  pretend 
to, — humph  !  "  Mostly  to  himself,  the  last  syllable  only  aloud  the 
cynic  said  this ;  and  the  black-robed  figure  passed  on,  out  of 
sight ;  the  heart  carried  a  thought  of  him  in  it, — a  thought  of  pain, 
— as  it  had  carried  this  many  a  year.  And  no  little  bird  flew  by, 
to  tell  him  so. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
EBEN'S  DISCOURSE. 

SOME  one  had  already  rung,  and  was  waiting,  when  Say  came 
up  the  steps  in  Hill  Street. 

A  tall,  rough  man  in  a  snuff-brown  country  suit,  and  a  snuffier 
brown  stiff  felt  hat ;  who  made  room  for  her  as  she  came  beside 
him,  and  eyed  her  curiously.  Say  had  her  latch-key  ;  it  would  not 
do  to  call  Honey  unnecessarily  to  the  door.  She  made  her  own 
entrance  ;  and  then  turned  round  inquiringly. 

Either  for  the  act,  announcing  herself  at  home,  or  from  the 
putting  back  of  her  veil,  giving  him  a  better  sight  of  her  face,  the 
stranger  showed  a  sudden  recognition.  He  thrust  forth  a  hand, 
bare  and  brown  as  everything  else  about  him. 


290  The  Gayworthys. 

" '  Tis  Say !     I'll  be — (buttered,"  in  a  whisper,)  "  if  it  ain't !  " 

"  I'm  not  sure, — I  don't  know, — "  hesitated  Say,  a  little  fright- 
ened, drawing  back. 

"  Who  I  be  ?  S'pose  likely  you  don't.  I  didn't  recognize,  you, 
at  the  first  go  off.  You've  growed,  'n  I'm  altered,  some.  Look 
again  though,  'n  I  guess  you'll  fetch  it !  " 

"Ebenr 

"  Ezer.     That's  it,  pat  as  Yankee  Doodle.     Mother  to  home  ?  " 

"  Come  in,  Eben.  Mother's  at  home  ;  but  she  never  sees  com- 
pany. She's  very  feeble." 

"  Sho  !  used  to  be  hearty  enough.  Guess  she'll  see  me,  though, 
when  you  tell  her.  Say  I've  come  clear  from  Illinois,  round  by 
way  o'  Hilbury.  That'll  fetch  her." 

Say's  eyes  opened  wide  at  the  man's  manner.  She  ushered  him 
in  with  dignity. 

"  I'll  tell  her,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  set  aside  further  discussion 
and  explanation. 

She  returned  after  some  minutes,  with  the  same  quiet,  unmoved 
air,  to  say  to  him  without  apparent  admission  of  anything  to  be 
wondered  at,  that  which  did,  secretly,  most  profoundly  astonish 
herself. 

"  Mother  will  see  you  up-stairs  in  about  half  an  hour." 

"Whew! "Eben  whistled.  "  Folks  don't  think  much  o'  half 
hours  more'n  o'  half  dollars,  here  'n  the  city,  't  seems  !  " 

Say  took  no  notice.  If  he  had  come  differently,  she  would  have 
had  a  hundred  things  to  say  to  Eben,  associated  as  he  was  with 
her  childish  remembrances  and  pleasures  ;  to  ask  of  Huldah  ;  and 
of  their  western  home.  It  was  not  pride,  or  forgetfulness ;  but  it 
was  the  confident  assertion  of  this  man's  presence,  here,  after  such 
an  interval  of  years ;  it  was  the  almost  insult,  with  which  he 
seemed  to  imply  that  her  mother  would  have  no  choice  but  to  see 
him  at  his  demand  ;  her  mother,  who  saw  nobody  ;  whom  nobody 
ventured,  for  a  moment,  to  disturb.  It  was  a  dark  significance  be- 
hind all  this,  which  touched  upon,  and  joined  itself  to  those  secret, 
terrible,  vague  thoughts  of  something  that  made  Hilbury  terrible  to 
her  mother ,  something  which  Aunt  Prue  suspected  ;  a  thing  the 
clear  knowledge  of  which  she  herself  shrunk  from,  with  a  pain  of 
apprehension  ;  yet  the  knowledge  of  which  she  felt  was  sure  to 
come  ;  a  thing  that  hers  was,  somehow,  at  last,  to  be  the  hand  to 
lay  hold  of ;  to  set  right. 

"  You  can  look  at  the  books,  if  you  please  ;  "  she  said,  and  went 
away. 

Eben  was  shrewd  enough  to  understand. 

"'Taint  her  fault,"  he  said,  as  he  was  left  alone.  "No  wonder 
her  grit  's  up.  It's  clear  sarciness  to  her — Well — I'm  let  in ;  and 
she'll  see  me  ;  I  know  now,  I'm  right ;  and,  by  Davy  Crockett,  I'll 
go  ahead ! " 


Eben's  Discourse.  291 

"  I'm  very  ill,  Eben,  and  can  bear  very  little ;  but  I  couldn't 
refuse  an  old  friend." 

Jane  Gair,  sitting  in  her  invalid  chair,  with  her  invalid  gown  and 
cap  on,  said  this,  as  Eben  Hatch  came  in  with  Say.  She  had  sent 
her  nurse  down  after  being  made  ready,  telling  her  she  might,  if 
she  chose,  go  out  for  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air  while  she  sat  up  ;  Say 
would  be  with  her. 

Now,  she  gave  Say  an  errand  to  the  cook.  There  was  to  be  a 
partridge  broiled  for  her;  and  she  would  like  some  wine- jelly 
made.  These  things  involved  more  than  direction,  as  Jane  knew. 
She  was  left  alone  with  her  odd  visitor. 

"  How  is  Huldah,  Eben  ?     And  where  is  she  ?" 

"  She's  in  Hflbury,  at  this  present  speaking ;  but  that  ain't  the 
business  in  hand.  I  don't  mean  to  worry  you  about  my  affairs." 

Jane  Gair  leaned  back  languidly.  But  her  eyes  were  keen  with 
questioning,  as  she  turned  them  upon  Eben. 

"  Have  you  any  special  errand  to  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  marm.  I've  got  sunthin'  to  say.  A  short  discourse,  with 
only  two  pints  to  it.  A  head  an'  a  tail." 

All  but  her  eyes  expressed  the  utmost  quiet  and  lassitude.  Her 
whole  figure  lay  passive.  Her  face  had  the  weary  look  of  long 
weakness  and  pain.  But  the  eyes  fixed  themselves,  with  a  sharp 
kindling  in  them,  on  the  man's  face. 

"  It's  only  this,  Mis'  Gair, — the  head  of  it.  Them  that  hides  can 
find.  And  they'd  better  be  spry." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  in  the  least."  Jane  Gair  spoke  slowly, 
after  a  pause  ;  her  tone  was  the  tone  of  uncomprehending,  slightly 
surprised,  indifference  ;  but  the  fire  in  the  eyes  flared. 

"  An'  I  come  across  sunthin'  t'other  day,  that  struck  me  up  with 
a  new  start.  '  The  Lord  will  bring  to  light  the  hidden  things  of 
darkness.'  Fust  C'rinthians,  fourth,  fifth.  He  says  so.  And  He 
mostly  fetches  it !  That's  the  tail ! " 

The  eyes  blenched  and  the  lids  fell.  There  was  a  twitching  of 
the  muscles  that  she  could  not  help.  She  sat  there  quivering  in- 
wardly with  a  detected  shame.  Eben  never  took  his  look  from 
her  ;  and  she  knew  it. 

Presently  she  leaned  forward,  with  a  quick  anger  in  her  move- 
ment, and  raised  her  face  again ;  angry,  also,  now. 

"  I  think  you're  crazy,  Ebenezer  Hatch."  Spoken  quite  quietly  ; 
the  anger  only  in  face  and  motion.  The  woman  was  half  con- 
trolled ;  half  self-betrayed. 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  didn't  say  that  quick  enough.  An'  I 
wouldn't  talk  any  more,  jest  now.  'Tain't  good  for  you.  I  guess 
the  best  thing  you  could  do  would  be  to  go  to  Hilbury,  by'm-bye. 
You  might  get  hold  o'  sunthin'  there  to  your  advantage — besides 
country  air." 

"  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  ?  "  It  was  an  effort  at  dignity  ;  but 
the  cowering  of  the  soul  trembled  in  the  tones. 


292  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Yes,  marm.  Head,  an'  tail,  an'  application.  Meetin's  out." 
He  rose  and  buttoned  up  the  snuff-brown  coat,  and  stood  twirling 
by  the  rim  the  snuff-brown  hat. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me.     You  are  either  crazy  or  mistaken." 

"Come,  now  !  That  air  won't  do!"  said  Eben,  with  the  same 
drawl  of  imperturbability  that  he  had  all  along  maintained ;  seating 
himself,  again,  with  arms  across  his  knees,  twirling  the  hat  between 
them,  in  his  hands ;  his  head  leaned  forward,  and  his  face  turned 
confidentially  toward  Mrs.  Gair. 

"  I've  either  told  you  the  livin'  truth,  yer  know  ;  an'  your  con- 
science says  the  same ;  or  else  I've  sarced  you  within  an  inch  o* 
your  life,  an'  that  air  bell's  ben  rung,  an'  I'm  bein'  turned  out  on 
the  sidewalk ;  which  don't  appear.  Now,  yer  see,  I  might  ha'  be- 
gun at  t'other  end  ;  and  worked  it  back  to  you  ;  which  might  n't  ha' 
ben  pleasant ;  but  I  thought  I'd  take  it  reg'lar,  an'  begin  at  the  be- 
ginnin'.  Mebbe  'twas  a  mistake,  though.  It's  hard  to  ravel  a 
stockin'  the  same  way  'twas  knit. — Old  Parson  Fairbrother  kep'  a 
journal."  He  went  on,  meditatively,  twirling  the  hat,  and  taking 
his  eyes  away  from  Jane,  to  fix  them  thoughtfully  on  the  carpet  be- 
tween his  feet.  '  With  some  view  to  the  chance  of  a  Me-more. 
An'  them  kind  o'  journals  is  allers  full  o'  reflections.  I  don't  s'pose 
he  did  nothin'  athout  moralizin'  over  it.  Sunthin',  in  this  fashion, 
likers  not,  'June  27th,  18 — .  Advised  an'  strengthened  Brother  G. 
in  a  just  act.  Set  my  hand  to  it,  with  him.  By  the  promptin'  o' 
the  Lord,  the  widder  an'  the  fatherless  are  pervided  for.'  'N  so 
on.  It's  an  improvin*  thing  to  look  it  over,  seein  't  the  Me-more 
ain't  writ  yet,  nor  like  to  be.  An'  Parson  King,  he's  got  it.  I  don't 
mind  lettin'  out  that  much,"  raising  his  head,  and  glancing  quickly 
at  Jane's  face.  "  'Tain't  stirred  yet ;  but  there's  where  the  light's 
ben  throwed.  An'  the  nex'  thing's  another  rummage.  Bindin'  on 
you,  an'  me,  an'  Huldy.  'Cause  we  know  that  that  air  paper  that's 
never  come  to  light,  hed  the  Parson's  name  to  it,  as  well  as  Huldy's 
an'  mine.  An'  then,  whatever  'twas,  'twas  hid  away  in  the  old 
cubbard,  for  awhile,  at  least.  You,  an'  I,  an'  Huldy,  knows  that. 
Or  else,  what  was  it  waitin',  unlocked  and  open  for,  that  night,  yer 
see  ?  An'  the  Doctor  allers  kep'  his  keys,  an'  nobody  meddled 
with  his  things  or  places  ;  as  Mis'  Vorse  said  that  day  when  you 
was  up  there,  lookin' ;  Priscill'  heerd  it ;  and  she  named  it  to  Huldy  ; 
she  thinks  it's  a  chance  ef  'twas  ever  opened  agin  from  then  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  'Twarn't  a  large  family,  an'  there  warn't  many 
comers  and  goers ;  an'  it's  easy  askin*.  I've  got  that  fur ;  it's  a 
tollable  strong  thread  ;  an'  the  toe's  started  ;  I  guess  't  '11  ravel, 
when  we  once  begin  !  " 

The  long  speech  had  given  Mrs.  Gair  time  to  think — to  collect 
herself.  It  is  not  impossible  that  Eben's  shrewdness  went  far 
enough  to  intend  this. 

He  had  begun  to  ravel.  Her  only  alternative  was  to  help.  It 
was  no  policy  for  her,  now,  to  wait ;  to  let  things  take  their  course  ; 


Eben's  Discourse.  293 

to  let  them  find  what  they  could,  or  leave  it  undiscovered.  The 
longer  the  delay,  the  greater  the  difficulty,  the  further  she  would 
be  implicated  in  the  investigation  ;  the  more  closely  circumstances 
would  be  recalled  and  weighed  ,  everybody  would  come  to  know 
that  she  had  been  "  up  and  around,"  that  miserable  night;  how 
much  more,  depended  upon  Eben's  counter-espial  and  forbearance ; 
everybody  would  know  that  she  alone  had  had  access,  since,  to  the 
place  where  the  will  had  been  found,  and  the  missing  paper  had 
undoubtedly  been  laid  away.  None  of  these  things  would  do. 

She  was  quite  calm,  and  ready  with  wise  answer,  when  Eben 
finished  speaking. 

"  You  are  altogether  mistaken,"  she  repeated.  "  You  have  come 
here  taking  a  wrong  tone  r  an  utterly  unjustifiable  one.  If  there 
is  any  written  evidence  of  my  father's  wishes  which  has  not  come 
to  light,  no  one  can  be  more  interested  than  I  to  find  it  and  follow 
it  out.  I  shall  be  in  Hilbury  this  summer ;  it  has  been  advised. 
I  shall  do  what  I  can,  acting  upon  your  statement ;  provided,  that 
is,  that  you  refrain  in  future  from  such  intimations  as  you  have 
made  to-day.  They  would  only  put  a  complete  stop  to  any  efforts 
on  my  part ;  I  should  owe  it  to  my  own  self-respect  to  remain 
passive." 

A  very  fair  and  clever  position,  this,  that  Jane  Gair  took  ;  she 
actually  felt  it  genuine,  for  the  moment.  People  have  two  sets  of 
attitudes  that  they  stand  in.  There  was  quite  another,  grown 
familiar  to  her,  that  she  should  cower  into  presently,  confronted 
only  with  truth  and  her  own  soul. 

"  I'm  agreeable,"  returned  Eben,  with  the  same  undisturbed  air 
of  equanimity,  "  It's  as  good  a  way  o"  puttin'  it  as  any  other's  fur's 
I'm  concerned.  We  understand  one  another, — 'n  that's  the  main 
thing." 

Mrs.  Gair  passed  over  the  under-significance  of  this. 

"  I  must  say,  however,"  she  returned,  "  that  it  seems  very  strange 
to  me  that  you  should  rouse  up  on  this  matter  again,  at  this  late 
day.  You  have  let  it  wait  your  own  convenience,  it  seems.  We 
had  every  reason  to  suppose  that  all  possible  search  had  been  made 
at  the  time  you  first  mentioned  it ;  and  that  you,  as  well  as  we, 
were  convinced  that  it  had  been  a  mistake." 

"  No,  marm  !  I  never  was  convinced.  But  I  could  n't  help  it.  I 
was  a  poor  man,  out  there  in  the  prairies,  an'  no  great  hand  at  a 
pen,  an'  no  way  o'  gittin'  at  circumstances,  or  provin"  what  I  thought 
I  knew.  But  I  knew 't  was  bindin' — solemn — on  me  to  fetch  it 
some  time  !  Or  else,  what's  a  witness  fur  ?  Folks  that  makes 
nothin'  o'  signin'  their  names,  every-  day  o'  their  lives,  to  they  dunno 
what,  may  n't  feel  it  so ;  but  when  I  put  Ebenezer  Hatch  to  that 
air  dockyment,  I  made  it  a  business  o'  mine  afore  the  Lord,  to  see 
it  through,  ef  I  could  !  'T  is  had  to  lay  by  ;  I've  been  hendered  ; 
but  I  haint  lost  sight  of  it,  never.  An'  in  conserquence,  here  we 
are,  Mis'  Gair  !  " 


294  The  Gayworthys. 

"  And  your  own  legacy, — your  five  hundred  dollars,  Mr.  Hatch  ? 
You  have  thought  of  that,  perhaps,  and  how  it  might  stand 
affected  ?  " 

"  Yes,  marm  !  The  fust  five  hundred  I  made  arter  I  cleared  my 
farm,  an'  begun  to  realize  sunthin,  I  laid  by  in  the  Graysonville 
Bank,  and  there  it  lays  ;  int'rest  'n  all ;  I'v  ben  ready  for  a  reckonin' 
any  time  this  ten  year  !  " 

Say  came  in  with  her  mother's  dinner-tray.  A  delicate  broiled 
partridge,  and  a  glass  of  warm,  liquid  wine-jelly,  just  made,  trans- 
lucent as  amber.  To  be  eaten  and  sipped  with  such  appetite  as 
might  be. 

Eben  Hatch  took  his  departure. 

"  '  Twas  sharp  an'  sudden  on  her ;  an*  thunderin'  sarcy,  no  mis- 
take !  But  there  warn't  no  other  way,"  he  said  to  himself,  walking 
down  Hill  Street,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  It's  laid  hard  on 
me,  too !  'T  warn't  fer  nothin'  that  the  hendrances  was  took 
away.  Well,  a  feller  can't  allers  fetch  everything  in  this  world  !  " 

Three  little  broken  threads  of  life — ended  in  three  small  graves 
— were  in  the  honest  fellow's  thought.  Great  drops  stood  in  his 
eyes  with  which  the  March  wind  had  nothing  to  do. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MRS.  GAIR  MAKES  UP  HER  MIND  TO  BE  EQUAL  TO  IT. 

WAS  this  Jane  Gair's  punishment, — come  suddenly  ? — Her  sin 
and  its  defeat,  bearing  down  on  her  at  once,  force  closing  in  around 
her  and  compelling  her  to  restitution, — now  that  this  Yankee 
honesty  was  on  her  track  ? 

Her  punishment  had  been  upon  her  for  long  years.  She  had 
laid  away  a  thing  that  she  would  not  look  at,  in  her  soul,  but  it 
festered.  She  had  been  restless  with  she  knew  not  what  goadings  ; 
ashamed  and  afraid  with  a  secret  torment  and  terror  ;  undecided 
with  a  hesitancy  that  unhinged  her  nerves,  and  sent  a  trembling 
of  pain  into  every  one,  till  it  fastened  itself  upon  her,  so,  and  made 
her  the  helpless,  diseased,  unhappy  thing  she  had  become.  She 
had  had  hypochrondriac  fancies  ;  she  had  wondered,  lying  by  her 
husband's  side,  whether  she  ever  talked  in  her  sleep.  She  had 
been  afraid  she  might  sometime  have  a  fever,  and  in  delirium  go 
over  again  and  betray  her  knowledge  and  her  deed.  She  had  had 
her  repentances  ;  moments  when  God  came  near  her  in  some  way, 
and  His  truth  admonished  her ;  when  she  had  almost  resolved  to 
go  and  find  this  thing  out.  She  had  even  tried  once  ;  when  Say 
lay  ill— dying,  she  thought — at  Hilbury,  she  had  one  day  climbed 
again  to  this  old  cupboard ;  making  errand  of  some  grandmother's 
recipe  that  might  be  there.  The  letter-case  was  gone  ;  it  had  been 


Mrs.  Gair  Makes  Up  Her  Mind.        295 

taken  away  and  put  elsewhere  :  she  dared  not  ask  for  it.  Say  got 
better  and  her  purpose  was  put  by. 

The  husband  of  her  youth  had  died  ;  she  had  been  smitten  with 
the  separate  sorrow  of  widowhood.  They  had  come  to  her  with 
words  of  comfort ;  of  faith  in  a  continued  spiritual  companionship ; 
she  had  shuddered  ;  she  would  rather  think  of  him  who  had  truly 
had  the  love  of  her  life,  as  gone  utterly,  than  that  he  should  look, 
upon  her  now  to  know  her  soul.  For  he  had  been  an  honest  man. 

She  shrank  from  her  young,  pure  daughter.  She  thought  of  the 
time  that  might  come  when  she  should  not  dare  to  die  without 
confessing  to  this  child,  and  leaving  reparation  in  her  hands.  She 
was  afraid  of  the  conscience-weakness  that  might  overbear  her. 
This  was  her  other  attitude, — before  her  secret  soul  and  the  truth 
of  Heaven. 

"  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord."     And  verily  He  doth  repay. 

It  was  hardly  strange  that  now,  after  the  first  startle  of  Eben's 
unscrupulous  attack,  her  predominant  feeling  should  be  that  of 
absolute  relief.  She  might  openly  make  search  again  ;  she  must ; 
that  question  was  decided  for  her;  she  might, — she  must, — assist 
in  the  general  endeavor  to  make  clear  this  doubt  newly  arisen  ;  the 
load  was  to  be  thrown  from  her  conscience ;  things  had  worked 
for  the  best  after  all,  and  she  had  managed  Eben  shrewdly.  For 
the  money,  what  did  she  care  for  it  now  ?  Full  of  pain  and  dis- 
comfort, her  life  circumscribed  by  a  sick-room  ;  lonely,  disappointed 
of  all  she  had  so  striven  for.  She  might  as  well  be  honest  as  not, 
and  lie  down  in  her  grave  with  a  clear  conscience.  But  this  was 
all  in  the  fine  soul-type.  She  only  confessed  to  herself  that  she 
was  quite  satisfied  with  the  turn  things  were  taking,  and  thankful  ; 
she  had  never  felt  quite  easy  about  the  will ;  she  would  be  glad  to 
have  justice  done ;  if  that  paper  still  existed,  she  would  do  her 
utmost  now  to  help  the  finding  of  it. 

And  so  she  greatly  astonished  Say,  a  few  days  after  Eben's  visit, 
by  declaring  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  when  the  warm 
weather  should  have  fairly  come,  to  try  Hilbury  again. 

Weeks  hence  she  would  do  justice.  Justice  that  a  word,  one 
self-humiliating  word,  might  do  to-day.  Weeks  hence,  and  she  a 
feeble,  pain-stricken  woman,  who  could  not  count  upon  the  strength 
of  an  hour. 

Say  wrote  to  Hilbury,  and  the  days  of  spring  wore  on  and 
softened  into  early  summer. 

Mrs.  Gair  seemed  wonderfully  better  for  the  time  ;  so  much  so 
that  Mr.  Brinley,  the  lawyer,  judged  it  best  at  last  to  say  some- 
thing to  prepare  her  for  the  necessity  of  permanently  altered 
plans. 

He  approached  this  subject  cautiously. 

"  You  must  find  this  neighborhood  grown  very  noisy,  for  an  in- 
valid, Mrs.  Gair.  Lower  down,  I  see,  they  are  already  converting 
dwelling-houses  into  stores.  The  tide  will  creep  up  here  at  last. 


296  The  Gayworthys. 

Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  you  might  sell  to  advantage,  and 
find  a  quieter  home  ?  ' 

"  I'm  not  equal  to  having  anything  occur  to  me,  Mr.  Brinley," 
the  widow  replied,  with  a  feeble  surprise  and  petulance.  "  Don't 
put  anything  in  my  head  ;  for  I  can  t  bear  it." 

"  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  judge  how  to  act,"  said  the  gentleman, 
with  a  slight  annoyance.  "  I  must  think  for  your  interest.  And 
if  you  could  only  bear  a  little  business — it  might  be  greatly  better 
for  you  in  the  end." 

"  I  don't  care  for  business.  All  I  want  is  my  room,  and  my 
nurse,  and  the  little  bits  I  need,  and  not  to  be  worried." 

"  You  are  much  stronger  than  you  were,  I  think." 

"  I'm  better  able  to  bear  being  alive ;  that's  all." 

"  No  doubt  the  country  air  will  do  great  things  for  you.  Mrs. 
Gair,  don't  you  think  you  might  be  better  to  make  your  home  in 
the  country,  altogether  ?  " 

"  My  gracious  !  Mr.  Brinley,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of  ?  " 

"I'm  thinking,"  he  replied,  driven  desperate  and  feeling  that  his 
duty  must  be  done, — "that  your  income  would  go  further,  so  ;  and 
— this  house,  well — the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Gair — it  isn't  wholly  unin- 
cumbered,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  upright,  the  invalid  air  and  tone  displaced  by  an 
angry  surprise. 

"  My  husband's  will  directed  that  the  old  mortgage  should  be 
paid  off,  and  the  property  secured  to  me  for  my  life ! " 

"  Just  so ;  but — my  dear  lady — it  couldn't  be  done  !  Not  from 
his  property. 

Mr.  Brinley  put  his  right  leg  over  his  left  knee,  and  gently 
wagged  his  foot  from  the  ankle.  This  was  the  extreme  of  out- 
ward agitation  he  ever  allowed  himself  in. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  tell  you  only  what  you  can  safely  bear  to  hear.  But 
it  would  be  best  if  you  could  hear  the  whole." 

"  I  -will  hear  the  whole !  Mr.  Brinley,  you  have  not  used  me 
•well !  How  much  have  you  been  keeping  back  ?  " 

Jane  Gair  spoke  with  strong,  quick,  indignant  determination. 
For  the  instant,  she  was  galvanized  to  a  full  strength. 

Mr.  Brinley  was  a  bachelor.  He  did  not  know  much  about 
women,  and  he  was  quite  misled.  Thankful,  also,  to  have  this,  at 
last,  demanded  of  him. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Gair,  you  have  been  very  ill ;  and  there  was  no 
need  to  trouble  you  before.  Now,  the  question  comes  up,  and  it 
becomes  my  duty  to  advise  you  to  part  with  this  estate,  and  to 
make  some  other  plan  as  to  your  own  future  residence.  In  this 
connection,  it  is  my  unpleasant  duty  also  to  say  that  you  will  have 
little  beyond  your  own  property  to  depend  upon." 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  Only  forty  "—thousand  dollars,  she  was 
going  to  say.  A  hard  thing,  even  this,  for  a  woman  to  come  sud- 


Mrs.  Gair  Makes  Up  Her  Mind.        2^7 

denly  to  know,  who  had  believed  herself  possessed  at  least  of  five 
times  that  amount. 

"We  will  leave  particulars  till  another  time,  dear  Madam,"  said 
Mr.  Brinley,  interrupting  her. 

He  did  not  dare  to  tell  the  whole,  even  now.  To  announce  to 
her  how  even  her  own  inheritance  had  dwindled  down. 

Jane  Gair  did  not  dare  to  hear.  She  turned  suddenly  pale  about 
the  lips  ;  there  was  no  color  elsewhere  in  her  poor  face  to  fade. 
She  fell  back,  trembling,  against  her  chair.  Mr.  Brinley  brought 
her  hastily  some  water  and  rang  the  bell.  The  nurse  came  in, 
looking  forked  lightnings.  The  lawyer  took  himself  disconcertedly 
off. 

After-questions  upon  an  after-day  he  dodged  as  only  a  lawyer 
can. 

"  Transfer  of  stocks,  rise  in  values,  hopes  to  realize, — impos- 
sible to  say  just  now  how  everything  might  turn  out — do  all  that 
was  practicably  for  her  advantage — let  her  know  from  time  to 
time, —  etc.,  etc." 

Somehow,  he  kept  her  quiet.  Partly  because  of  her  own  weak 
fear  to  face  the  truth. 

But,  the  paper?     The  justice  she  was  to  help  to  do? 

The  secret  conflicting  agony  began  again. 

She  began  to  hope,  to  think,  sometimes  again,  that  the  writing 
never  would  be  found.  They  would  all  search.  There  should  be 
"another  rummage,"  as  Eben  had  said,  but  it  might  end  as  the 
first  had  done.  Could  she  help  that  ?  " 

She  meant,  would  it  appear  that  she  could  have  helped  it  ? 

Eben  might  do  his  worst.  What  then  ?  She  had  gone  down 
stairs  one  night,  seventeen  years  ago.  to  get  for  Say  a  glass  of 
water.  She  remembered  it  well.  She  had  opened  the  old  cup- 
board once,  and  hunted  out  a  hidden  volume  there  that  she  had 
wanted.  Very  well ;  what  could  anybody  make  of  it  ?  She  had 
never  touched  the  paper,  that  she  knew  of.  If  there  were  any- 
thing there  in  the  old  case  that  had  not  been  discovered,  it  had  been 
none  of  her  hiding.  It  might  come  to  light  as  soon  or  as  late  as 
ever  it  pleased. 

As  what  pleased  ? 

A  vague  thought  of  something — not  blind,  unconscious — ruling 
among  earthly  happenings,  struck  athwart  her  inner  sense  with  a 
shudder.  She  dared  not  look  that  way. 

She  wished  she  had  never  promised  to  go  to  Hilbury  at  all. 
It  was  a  horribly  nervous  business.  She  began  to  feel  herself 
worse.  She  blamed  Say  for  taking  her  so  quickly  at  her  word. 
She  knew,  they  all  knew,  that  the  mountain  air  was  like  death  to 
her.  Well,  they  might  finish  her  up,  among  them,  and  that  would 
be  the  end.  Say  would  have  had  her  own  way,  and  would  be 
satisfied,  perhaps. 

Through  such  pain  as  this  Say  had  to  struggle,  doing  bravely 


298  The  Gayworthys. 

with  all  her  little  strength  what  she  knew  was  truly  best  for  her 

sick,  wearying,  reproachful  mother. 
And  the  June  days  came. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

TO-MORROW. 

I  MUST  stop  here  to  tell  you  a  little  more  exactly  how  the  old 
house  at  Hilbury  was  built.  I  don't  like,  myself,  to  get  lost  among 
imaginary  architecture,  which  won't  stay  placed,  and  which  per- 
petually violates  the  unities.  I  like  to  have  things  clear  before  me, 
mentally. 

The  farmhouse  had  an  extended  front,  divided  midway  by  the 
entrance,  passage,  and  staircase  you  have  heard  of.  Below  on  one 
side  was  one  large  room,  of  sufficiently  generous  proportions  to 
hold  comfortably  any  possible  New  England  Thanksgiving  family 
party  and  all  its  merriment.  On  the  other  side,  occupying  the 
front,  was  the  parlor,  behind  which  the  Doctor's  study  and  certain 
closets  intervened  between  it  and  the  spacious  kitchen.  Some- 
thing of  this  I  told  you  long  ago. 

Up-stairs  there  were  two  rooms  on  each  side.  On  the  left, 
opening  from  the  stair  landing  and  running  from  the  kitchen  cham- 
ber to  the  front,  the  oblong  "dimity"  room,  where  Jane  and  Say 
had  slept  seventeen  years  ago  this  very  June,  whence  Jane  had 
gone  for  the  drink  of  water,  and  Say  had  listened  and  heard  the 
earthquake.  Still  to  the  left  beyond,  in  the  southerly  corner, 
separated  by  a  long,  narrow  closet,  and  opening  only  into  the 
kitchen-chamber  at  the  head  of  the  "  end  staircase,"  was  what  had 
been  Joanna's  room  ;  occupied  now,  for  the  sake  of  the  same  tele- 
graph of  sympathy  from  gable  to  gable  of  the  two  neighboring 
homes, — by  Rebecca.  On  the  right  the  space  was  divided  by  a 
partitioning  precisely  at  right  angles  with  this  last ;  the  chambers 
corresponding  to  the  situation  of  the  rooms  below.  In  front,  with 
pleasant  southeasterly  aspect,  that  which  had  been  the  Doctor's, 
hung  with  chintz  of  buff  and  brown.  Behind,  connected  by  a 
closet  entrance,  and  opening  also  to  the  kitchen-chamber  and  the 
entry  landing,  the  "  red-room,"  where  Say  had  enjoyed  and  suffered. 
The  long  kitchen-chamber,  with  southwest  end  cut  off,  giving 
space  for  stairway,  clothes-room,  and  Rebecca's  old,  cheery  bed- 
room, where  the  cherry-tree  came  in, — ran  along  the  rear  of  all. 
occupying  the  remainder  of  the  building.  Now  you  have  it,  I 
think,  drawn  out  as  a  house  should  be,  wherein  you  follow  events 
of  seventeen  years. 

When  Jane  arrived  at  dusk,  with  her  daughter,  and  her  nurse, 
and  her  trunks,  and  her  reclining  chair,  and  her  baths,  in  and 
upon  a  special  stage-coach  from  the  Bridge,  she  was  too  tired  to 


To-Morrow  299 

think  or  choose,  or  say  a  word.  It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Karcher 
was  helping  her  into  bed,  and  the  buff-brown  hangings  were 
pushed  back  upon  the  side  to  give  her  entrance,  that  a  sudden 
horrified  recollection  seized  her,  and  an  invisible  force  seemed  to 
thrust  her  away. 

To  rest  there  !  She  saw  a  vision  of  white  locks  upon  the  pillow  ; 
of  dim,  imploring  eyes  that  met  her  own  ;  of  lips  that  moved  with  a 
mute  signing, — "  There  !  " 

"  I  can't — !"  she  gasped  out,  and  fell  forward  as  she  said  so, 
her  arms  thrown  out  across  the  bed.  Mrs.  Karcher  just  went 
round  and  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  her  over,  and  drew 
her  fairly  on. 

"  The  tantrums  of  her ! "  she  ejaculated,  finding  her  white,  faint, 
and  unheeding. 

Rebecca  came  in. 

Together  they  lifted  her  into  a  right  position;  and  brought 
water  and  restoratives. 

"  Are  you  better,  dear  ?  "  Rebecca  asked,  when  the  closed  eyes 
reopened. 

"  I  don't  know.     Where  am  I  ?     What  did  I  do  ?— Oh  ! " 

"  With  a  quick  scream,  she  flung  herself  up  to  her  elbow,  out  of 
their  hands. 

"  I  can't — I  won't — it  is  cruel ! — What  did  you  put  me  here 
for  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?  We  thought  it  was  better.  Mrs.  Karcher 
would  be  close  by,  in  the  red-room  ;  and  the  dimity  bedroom  is 
for  Say.  You  would  be  all  together.  It  seemed  to  be  the  only 
thing." 

"  And  the  cheer,  and  the  tubs,  and  the  bottles,  and  everything 
just  got  out  and  put  handy  !  And  1  without  a  foot  to  stand  on  !" 
The  poor  nurse  spoke  despairingly  in  a  low  tone,  to  Miss  Gay- 
worthy. 

"  I  think  you  must  stay  here  to-night.  You're  not  able  to  be 
moved." 

"  I  am  able !     And  I  will  not  !     Take  me  into  the  red-room." 

The  white  lips  twitched.  It  might  be  worse  to  persist  than  to 
let  her  have  her  way.  They  held  her  up,  one  at  each  side,  and 
helped  her  slowly  along,  into  the  red-room  ;  and  got  her  into  bed. 

The  faintness  passed  off  then,  and  the  look  of  life  came  back. 
But  with  the  life  came  pain  again.  A  fearful  nervous  agony  in 
every  limb.  They  stood  over  her  and  bathed,  and  rubbed,  and 
gave  her  soothing  drops. 

By-and-by  she  quieted  ;  and  from  pure  exhaustion  fell  asleep. 

"  Lord  save  us  from  such  another  clay !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Karcher 
wearily,  dragging  herself  off  at  last,  to  her  own  uncertain  rest. 

Jane  slept  into  the  midnight. 

Then  she  awoke  stark,  staring ;  alone  in  utter  stillness. 

To  think. 


7,oo  The  Gayworthys. 

To  see  the  flicker  of  faint  light  through  the  closet  doorway,  from 
the  night-lamp  set  upon  the  hearth  in  the  room  beyond. 

To  fancy  the  room  in  that  sick  glimmer  ;  and  the  canopied  bed  ; 
to  find  it  impossible  to  picture  Mrs.  Karcher  there  its  occupant  ; 
to  be  able  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  white  hair,  the  dim,  asking 
eyes,  the  tremulous-moving  lips ;  to  fix  her  imagination  helplessly 
upon  these,  till  they  drew  her  with  a  fearful  magnetism  of  reality. 

"  Daughter ! " 

The  very  tone  was  in  her  ears. 

She  knew  it  was  a  fancy  ;  but  if  she  did  not  go  and  see,  it  would 
haunt  and  summon  her  till  she  felt  she  should  go  wild.  It  was 
worse  here,  with  that  door  open  and  that  sick-room  gleam,  and  all 
else  hid,  than  it  would  have  been  to  stay  there.  She  almost 
dreaded,  in  her  overwrought  excitement,  that  if  she  did  not  rise 
and  go,  her  father's  phantom-shape  would  glide  from  the  dim  room 
and  come  to  her.  She  should  go  wild  ! 

She  was  afraid  she  should  scream  out,  and  lose  all  self-control. 
She  had  been  afraid  of  this,  sometimes,  before.  She  set  her  teeth, 
and  clenched  her  hands.  A  strange  shiver  ran  along  her  limbs. 

She  could  lie  there  and  endure  no  longer.  At  the  risk  of  bring- 
ing back  that  horrible  pain,  she  must  get  up,  and  go  and  see.  She 
slid  from  under  the  bedclothes,  and  stood  upon  the  floor.  Noise- 
lessly; lest  Mrs.  Karcher, — (she  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Karcher,  and 
no  one  else, — she  kept  saying  it  over, — yet  she  could  not  place  her 
there,  in  the  canopied  bed  in  that  next  room  ;  she  could  only  see 
the  old  face,  and  the  white  hair,  and  the  lips  that  whispered, 
"  Daughter  !  ") — lest  Mrs.  Karcher  should  hear,  and  come  to 
her  and  put  her  back  to  bed  again.  And  that  threshold  she  must 
cross. 

Was  her  mind  going  ?  Should  she,  if  she  once  let  go  this  clench 
of  hands  and  teeth, — this  clench  of  thought  that  for  years  had  held 
a  thing  it  would  not  unclasp  to  look  at, — go  shrieking  it  all  out 
Together,  through  the  house, — a  madwoman  ? 

It  was  almost  upon  her. 

How  the  shadows  flickered  as  the  lamp  flared  in  the  breath 
through  the  doorway  !  They  were  like  things  alive  ! 

Was  this  room  full  of  guilt,  haunting  and  mocking  her,  as  the 
room  at  home  had  been  of  pain  ?  Had  it  clung  there  to  the  very 
walls,  the  breath  of  her  old  unspoken  deceit,  to  wait  for  her  ? 

"  Mrs.  Karcher  !  " 

"  The  mercy !  "     The  nurse  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed. 

"  I  must  come  to  bed  to  you.  I  cannot  stay  alone.  I'm 

nervous  !  "  The  word  came  with  a  low  tremble  of  horror,  through 
teeth  clenched  again. 

Mrs.  Karcher  flung  back  the  bedclothes,  and  the  figure  cowered 
and  trembled  in.  Laid  itself,  cold  and  rigid  at  her  side,  as  some- 
thing might  that  should  go  wandering  at  midnight,  and  come  back 
into  a  grave. 


To- Morrow.  301 

Mrs.  Karcher,  providentially,  was  not  nervous.  She  was  kindly 
and  patient ;  overworked  and  overtired,  sometimes,  as  humans 
must  be. 

"  We'll  see  to  this  to-morrow.  Lie  still,  now,  and  go  to  sleep," 
she  said,  coming  close  to  give  of  her  own  abundant  vital  warmth, 
and  rubbing  the  poor,  chilled  hands. 

"Yes.  To-morrow.  We  will  see  to  it,  to-morrow."  There 
were  separate  thoughts  in  the  two  minds. 

Jane  Gair  lay,  growing  calmer,  outwardly  ;  and  thinking  she 
would  see  to  it  all  to-morrow.  Borrowing  a  little  peace,  or  stilling  a 
little,  a  great  torment,  so. 

And  the  gray,  easterly  light  began  to  creep  up  against  the  win- 
dows. To-morrow  was  almost  come. 

"  Rub  my  hands  again.     They  feel  so  strangely." 

It  seemed  to  Nurse  Karcher  that  she  had  just  done  rubbing,  and 
shut  her  eyes,  when  Jane  said  this,  an  hour  later. 

"  They're  numb.     I  think  they're  gone  asleep." 

"  You  must  have  laid  uncomfortable  ;  and  stopped  the  circulation." 

"  Rub  !  do  rub  !  " 

So  she  rubbed  ;  and  fell  asleep  rubbing ;  and  Jane  slept  too ;  or 
some  other  stillness  came  over  her. 

It  was  broad  day  when  the  overtaxed  nurse  awoke.  She  raised 
herself,  very  gently,  to  look  at  her  patient. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious  God  !  " 

There  was  life  in  the  wide-open  eyes  ;  a  terrible  agonized  life  , 
all  else — limbs  and  features — lay  dead.  There  was  a  look  of  striv- 
ing ;  a  helpless,  inarticulate  sound  came  from  between  the  lips, 
where  the  tongue  lolled  incapable. 

Mrs.  Karcher  had  seen  it  before ;  she  knew  it  at  first  glance. 

Paralysis. 

Here,  in  the  very  spot  where  her  old  father  had  lain  ;  where  she 
had  watched,  with  a  hard  purpose  of  not  knowing  what  she  would 
not  know,  his  pleading  eyes,  his  striving  lips ;  here,  where  who 
knows  what  agony  of  late  repentance  had  come  to  her,  in  these 
hours  of  fear,  that  she  could  never  tell  nor  evidence  now, — the 
hand  of  God  was  laid  upon  her. 

She  might  live,  and  lie  here,  days,  in  this  mortal  nightmare  ; 
none  could  know.  Brain  and  heart  beat  on,  alive  ;  but  she  never 
should  make  utterance  or  motion,  more. 

She  must  live,  so,  and  look,  out  of  those  agonized  eyes,  whose 
beseeching  none  might  answer,  on  the  scene  of  her  silent  sin. 

She  must  go  out  of  the  world  bearing  with  her,  for  her  curse, 
the  secret  that  struggled  at  the  last  within  her,  and  anguished  to 
reveal  itself ;  but  that  God,  who  had  had  long  patience,  now  laid 
His  finger  on  her  lips,  forbidding  her  to  speak. 

She  had  "  done  nothing."  She  had  "  waited."  She  must  do 
nothing,  now.  She  must  go  away  ;  and  wait.  It  was  her  Retri- 
bution. 


302  The  Gay  worthy  s. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

SEEKING. 

"  I  KNOW  she  wanted  something,"  'Say  said,  grievingly  an& 
repeatedly. 

That  last,  longing  look, — denied  speech, — from  how  many  death- 
beds has  it  come  up, — to  how  many  sorrowing  hearts  has  it  re- 
turned like  a  vision,  haunting  with  something  that  was  "wanted," 
and  could  never  be  asked  for  or  explained. 

But  this, — it  had  not  been  the  look  of  a  moment,  merely ;  of  the 
last  instant,  when  voice  and  motion  fail,  and  the  infinite  yearning 
of  all  that  is  left  unspoken,  surges  up  with  the  latest  flash  of  soul- 
presence,  from  under  the  fluttering  lids.  It  had  been  an  agony  of 
days.  It  had  painted  itself  upon  Say's  mental  vision,  displacing  all 
other  recollection  of  her  mother's  face.  She  could  not  think  of  her 
as  she  had  been  in  health ;  she  could  not  force  her  thoughts  to 
picture  her  as  she  lay  at  last,  stilled  to  the  long  sleep.  Up,  through 
the  closed  lid — the  heaped-up  grave  even — struggled  that  wild 
imploringness  of  wide-open,  conscious  eyes.  She  could  not  think 
of  her  at  rest.  There  are  other  hauntings,  and  more  real,  of  the 
perturbed  soul  that  goes  unshriven,  than  the  spectral  wanderings 
of  the  old  tales.  The  child  knew  that  her  mother  had  not  gone  to 
rest ;  that  a  spirit-urging  was  upon  herself  ;  that  a  something  had 
been  left  undone,  which  she,  God  guiding  her,  must  do. 

Every  hard,  reproachful  thought — if  she  had  ever  harbored  such, 
in  her  pain,  in  time  past — of  the  unknown  thing  that  had  lain  be- 
tween her  mother  and  Aunt  Prue,  whereof  Aunt  Prue  had  made 
such  scathing  charge,  was  gone, — changed  utterly.  She  "  knew 
her  mother  wanted  something."  If  she  could  have  signed  or 
spoken !  There  was  something  she  would  have  told  to  Say.  If 
for  a  moment,  the  child  was  left  alone  at  her  bedside,  the  yearning 
look,  the  terrible  striving,  the  restless,  imploring  wander  of  the  eyes 
grew  more  intense, — more  fearfully  earnest  and  agonizing. 

"It  is  something  that  you  want  of  me ?  "  she  had  said  once, 
bending  down  and  speaking  clear  and  low  into  her  mother's  ear. 

And  the  deep,  searching  answer  that  came  back  from  eye  to  eye, 
only  !  It  was  soul  enjoining  soul. 

"  I  will  think,  I  will  try  to  learn  ;  somehow,  I  shall  be  led  ;  and, 
if  I  find  it,  I  will  do  as  you  would  have  me  do." 

For  a  moment,  then,  there  had  been  quiet  ;  afterwards  sudden 
pleading  lights  of  inquiry  came  up,  momentarily,  from  time  to 
time,  when  Say  leaned  over  her,  as  if  the  eyes  said  "  Will you  f" 
"  You  are  sure  you  will  ?  " 

Say  knew,  with  a  sweet,  filial,  pious  certainty,  that  her  mother 


Seeking.  303 

had  meant  justly  at  the  last.  She  only  pitied,  now,  and  longed  to 
fulfil  for  her.  She  laid  away  what  might  have  been  a  reproach 
and  a  bitterness ;  it  was  never  to  be  looked  at  again.  Her  poor, 
suffering,  stricken,  regretful  mother !  This  was  how  she  thought 
of  her. 

It  was  some  small  thing  doubtless  ;  something  she  had  thought 
from  time  to  time  to  set  right ;  something  she  had  not  "  considered 
it  best  " — Say  knew  her  mother's  way  of  judging  and  reasoning — 
to  act  upon  it  at  first.  She  had  not  meant  deliberate  wrong ;  she 
could  not  think  that,  let  Aunt  Prue  accuse  as  she  might ;  it  had 
only  been  her  habit  of  "  managing  "  things,  which  always  made 
Say  so  sorry ;  it  was  such  a  mistake  ;  God  manages ;  we  must 
only  do  his  will,  and  leave  it  to  Him.  Her  mother  had  mistaken  ; 
and  it  had  become  too  late ;  and  she  had  suffered.  She  was  gone ; 
and  Say  must  try  to  find  it  and  do  it  for  her.  Then,  the  look  of 
the  haunting  eyes  should  close  away  into  a  perfect  rest  again. 

She  found  Eben,  one  day,  when  he  was  up  at  the  farm.  She 
followed  him  down  the  green  lane  toward  the  sheep-pasture,  and 
spoke  to  him,  alone. 

"  I  think  you  know,  Eben,"  she  said  suddenly,  looking  him  in 
the  face,  after  she  had  walked  a  little  way  by  his  side,  saying 
nothing. 

"  I  know  a  few  things,"  said  Eben,  in  reply.  "  But — sech  as 
what  ?  " 

"  Something  that  my  mother  wanted — I  must  find  it  out, 
Eben ! " 

Eben  whistled ;  very  low.  He  was  puzzled  what  to  say  to  this 
child.  The  awful  visitation  that  had  come  upon  Jane  Gair,  had 
suspended  all  his  shrewd  intentions ;  had  softened  his  desire  of 
justice  upon  her. 

"  I  can't  work  from  the  outside  in,  to  the  heart  of  the  matter," 
he  had  said  to  himself  at  an  early  stage  of  his  endeavors.  "  I 
haven't  got  the  clear  track  ;  I  must  work  from  inside  out."  He 
began  at  Jane's  conscience.  He  had  got  just  fact  enough  to  press 
upon  that,  and  stir  it  to  its  office.  Unless  she  would  speak  he 
knew  little  beyond  what  he  had  known*  twelve  years  ago  ;  "  not 
enough  to  make  a  rumpus,  an*  upset  a  peaceable  family  for." 

He  had  kept  his  Yankee  eyes  and  ears  open,  in  Hilbury  ;  he  had 
talked  over  old  times ;  he  had  been  especially  interested  about 
Parson  Fairbrother ;  he  had  gathered  odds  and  ends  of  hearsay 
and  conjecture ;  he  had  discussed,  with  the  old  neighbors,  the 
changes  at  the  Gayworthy  farm  ;  he  stirred  up,  cautiously,  the 
died-out  "wonderings"  about  the  will;  he  had  felt  the  whole  at- 
mosphere of  the  place,  so  far  as  it  bore,  at  all,  upon  the  subject 
which  he  had  at  heart.  At  his  suggestion,  Huldah  and  Priscilla 
had  had  confidences ;  and  Priscilla  had  "  named  "  the  matter  of 
her  old  surprise  and  curiosity ;  and  her  eyes  had  grown  round 
again,  with  a  fresh  and  a  greater  wonder;  and  the  new  impression, 


304  The  Gayworthys. 

that  was  to  come,  had  come  at  last  and  mated  itself  to  the  old. 
that  had  been  set  away,  on  purpose,  all  these  years,  to  cool  and 
wait.  Eben  was  convinced  in  his  own  mind.  He  "  knew  therms? 
been  a  bob  to  that  air  kite-tail ;  he'n  Huldy  felt  convicted  of  it." 
And  then,  there  were  the  "  reflections  "  in  the  Parson's  Diary. 
But,  to  own  the  whole  truth  of  Eben,  he  had  got  at  these  last,  in  a 
somewhat  surreptitious  way,  himself. 

He  had  taken  Huldah  down  to  Winthorpe  one  day,  when  he 
had  known  that  Parson  King  and  his  wife  were  away  at  an  or- 
dination. 

They  had  found  Malviny  Fairbrother  there ;  the  old  lady  was 
dead  ;  and  Malviny  "  made  it  her  home,"  now  at  Winthorpe  Par- 
sonage. Huldah  had  set  her  going  upon  old  times.  Eben  had 
picked  up  this  bright  idea  of  some  possible  existing  record  of  what 
he  wanted  to  know,  and  worked  dexterously  round  to  it. 

"  He  was  a  dreadful  orderly  man,  yer  father;  allers  did  every 
thing,  't  seemed  ter  me,  's  if  'twas  out  V  a  book,  or  goin  inter  one. 
'N,  by  the  way,  they  say  in  Hilbury,  ther  was  to  'a  ben  a  memore, 
or  sunthin.'  Oughter  ben.  What's  the  use  V  a  man  livin'  a 
memore  ef  it  don't  get  writ  ?  Didn't  Parson  King  hev  s'm  papers, 
'r  sunthin,  't  one  time  ?" 

"  He  had  my  father's  diary,"  replied  the  minister's  daughter, 
with  prim  dignity.  She  had  been  the  "  minister's  daughter,"  all 
her  life,  from  the  days  of  grown-up  tea-parties,  where  she  appeared 
on  privilege,  till  now.  The  sense  of  it  had  been  ever  present  to 
her ;  a  most  sustaining  sense  ;  and  fortunately,  since  there  had 
been  little  likelihood  of  her  ever  merging  this  in  any  other  claim  or 
dignity. 

"  And  he  has  it  to  this  day.  Laid  away  in  his  desk,  I  guess ; 
which  is  all  that  will  ever  come  of  it,  most  probably.  My  uncle 
Gordon  isn't  exactly  a  doing  man."  And  Malviny  sniffed,  as  one 
vitally  aggrieved  by  such  incompetency. 

'T  must  be  very  curious  'n  improvin',"  said  the  wily  Eben.  "  I 
dursay  now,  't  had  half  the  history  of  the  town  in  't,  's  fur's  it  went. 
Must  'a  ben  a  sightly  vollum." 

They  were  sitting  in  Gordon  King's  study  at  the  moment,  it 
being  back  parlor  as  well.  Eben's  eye  ran  over  the  shelves,  and 
rested  on  the  minister's  desk. 

Miss  Malviny  got  up  presently,  and  opened  it.  She  took  thence 
an  old-fashioned  sheepskin-covered  book,  of  royal  octavo  size,  with 
DIARY  in  large  lettering  across  the  back. 

"  This  is  it,"  she  said,  and  turned  it  in  her  hands  with  pride. 

"  An'  all  full  ! "  ejaculated  Eben,  with  surprise.  "  I — !  No,  I 
don't  nuther,  'twouldn't  be  proper.  I  dursay,  Huldy,  that  air's  got 
sunthin'  'bout  you'n  me  in  it,  'mongst  other  things.  October  the 
1 9th,  1 8 — ,  hey  ?  Good  many  things  might  be  proved  out  'v  a  book 
like  that,  ef  there  warn't  no  other  way,  mebbe." 

"  1 8 — ."     Miss  Malviny  ran  over  the  leaves  in  her  prim,  delib- 


Seeking.  305 

erate  way.  "  Would  it  be  a  gratification  to  you  to  look  at  it  ?  "  and 
she  held  it  out. 

Eben  put  his  hat  down  on  the  floor  and  took  the  volume  on  his 
knees  open  as  she  gave  it  to  him. 

Huldah  moved  toward  the  window,  and  fell  to  admiring  the  great, 
pink-flowered  oleander  that  stood  there  in  the  sunshine.  The  two 
women's  heads  were  turned  away  in  conference  over  the  plant, 
Miss  Fairbrother's  special  boast.  Somehow,  by  one  of  his  clumsy 
motions,  Eben  lost  the  place,  and  had  but  just  recovered  it,  when, 
after  some  minutes'  talk,  they  turned  round  again. 

"  Here  'tis,  Huldly,  sure  enough  !  No  gettin'  away  from  it !  " 
And  he  pointed  out,  with  exultation,  as  she  came  to  his  side,  the 
paragraph  referring  to  the  solemnization  of  their  nuptials. 

"  Ain't  you  '  horry '  yet  ?  "  he  whispered. 

Miss  Malviny  turned  considerately,  and  sensitively,  away, 
again. 

"  An*  'tother's  there,  too ! "  he  got  time  to  add,  in  a  still  lower, 
and  more  emphatic  whisper,  as  he  shut  the  book,  and  rose  to  give 
it  back. 

Miss  Malviny  took  it,  in  bulk,  with  her  air  of  pride,  utterly  un- 
conscious of  details.  She  was  proud  of  it  in  bulk ;  she  thought  it 
ought,  somehow,  to  be  turned  into  a  Memoir ;  she  had  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  examine  it  in  its  particulars. 

Another  most  safe  though  slight  concealment  this  family  secret 
of  the  Gayworthys  had  found. 

Yet,  after  all,  if  it  were  known  ?  If  Eben  should  speak  out,  and 
direct  attention  to  it  ?  What  did  it  prove  ?  That  there  had  been 
a  paper.  Eben  could  prove  that,  already.  Something  more. 
That  the  paper  had  been  an  act  in  favor  of  "  the  widow  and  the 
fatherless."  But,  what  then  ?  They  had  searched  for  this  paper 
before  ;  twelve  years  ago,  in  the  first  handling  of  the  Doctor's 
affairs  ;  while  all  such  things  had  been  scrupulously  kept  together  ; 
and  it  could  not  be  found.  The  same  hand  which  prepared,  might 
have  canceled  it.  There  had  been,  to  many  minds,  sufficient 
cause.  He  could  not  say  that  he  had  not,  at  one  time,  thought  it 
possible,  himself.  The  only  lips  that  could,  perhaps,  have  told  the 
truth,  were  shut,  forever.  He  had  "almost  fetched  it,"  he  had  said, 
to  himself,  when  he  had  laid  this  hold,  by  sudden  assault,  upon 
Jane  Gair's  conscience.  But  she  had  died  and  made  no  sign.  It 
was  not  an  easy,  or  a  reasonable  thing,  to  "  upset  a  family  "  upon 
no  better  grounds.  And  Eben  could  not  walk  into  the  Gayworthy 
presses  and  cupboards,  with  the  search-warrant  only  of  his  honest 
persuasion  and  purpose.  There  are  little  everyday  proprieties  of 
observance  that  make  the  firmest  persuasion,  the  honestest  purpose, 
unavailing  against  their  petty  bars. 

"  She  wanted  something." 

"  No  doubt  she  did  want  sunthin',"  Eben  replied,  to  Say's 
eager  appeal.  "  Dyin'  folks  mostly  do.  It's  a  kinder  V  an 


306  The  Gayworthys. 

awful  spell,  when  everything  comes  up  together,  and  they  ain't  no 
time  nor  strength  to  say  it  with.  But  she  never  said  nothin' 
to  me." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her,  Eben,  that  day,  when  you  came  to 
see  her  in  Hill  Street  ?  " 

Say's  eyes  were  turned  on  Eben's  face,  with  hardly  less  of  fear- 
ful earnestness  in  them,  than  those  other  eyes  had  held,  when  they 
turned  on  hers. 

"  Don't  look  at  a  feller  so  ! "  he  cried,  fairly  startled.  "  I  couldn't 
tell  a  thing,  ef  I  did  know  it ! " 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  ? "  Say  repeated  lower  and  more 
quietly,  still  with  an  earnest,  demanding  look  in  her  eyes,  though 
she  tried  to  soften  them.  But  it  was  as  if  another  soul  questioned 
through  hers,  and  would  be  answered. 

"  Well,  I  told  her  I  thought  we'd  oughter  hev  another  rum- 
mage !" 

"  Rummage !  Where  ?  What  for  ?  " 

"  Round  ginerally.     Arter  that  air  kite-bob." 

"  Eben !    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Are  you  in  airnest,  Sarah  ?  " 

"  In  soul-earnest !  "  said  the  girl.  And  the  words  shone  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  every  pesky  thing  I  know  about  it. 
That  is — hum  !  in  proper  order.  Fust  thing, — there  was  a  paper. 
The  Doctor  writ  it,  'n  me'n  Huldy  signed  it  fur  him.  Parson  Fair- 
brother  signed  it  too,  atop.  I  never  see  nothin'  of  it  but  the  names. 
But  I  knew  then  it  was  a  bob  !  " 

"  Oh,  Eben  !  don't  make  fun.     Talk  plain." 

"  Don't  make  no  difference  what  you  call  it.  A  piecin'  out,  or  a 
tail  end  to  sunthin'  that  was  writ  afore  an'  found  arterwards,  an' 
gone  upon  ;  an'  this  never  was." 

"  Did  it  have  to  do  with  grandfather's  will,  Eben  ?  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I'm  persuaded  on,  though  I  never  witnessed 
nothin'  but  the  name.  I  wouldn't  do  no  sech  a  blindfold  job 
again,  though.  It's  a  scary  thing  enough  to  be  a  witness,  'n  ter 
feel  that  go  where  yer  will  all  over  the  world,  yer've  got  to  turn 
up  again  simultaneous  with  that  air  paper,  or  mebbe  a  hull  pos- 
terity's in  a  snarl,  athout  hevin'  it  ter  conjer  out,  besides  !  It's 
my  belief,  'n  I'm  backed  up  in  it  strong,  though  that  ain't  needful 
to  go  inter  now, — that  that  air  hed  ter  dew  with  the  property  ; 
'n  the  widder  'n  the  fatherless.  I  writ  t'  yer  mother  'n  the  time 
on  't,  an'  ther  was  a  rummage  ;  but  nothin'  come  of  it.  'Twarn't 
never  found." 

"  Why  did  you  write  to  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Well, — cause,  first  place,  she  was  the  oldest ;  'n  yer  father  was 
egzeckitur  under  the  will ;  'n  cause  if  the  old  Doctor  ever  talk't  it 
over  t'  anybody,  't  was  most  likely  t'  her ;  an' — well — cause  I  see 


Seeking.  307 

her  in  'n  out  o'  them  rooms  that  night  arter  the  paper  was  signed, 
an'  I  thought  ef  anybody  could  make  a  guess  where  'twas  put,  'n 
lay  hands  on  it,  she  could." 

"  What  night  ?  " 

"  Seventeen  year  ago  ;  the  June  afore  Huldy  'n  me  was  mer- 
ried  ;  the  night  of  the  strawberry  frolic,  when  you  got  inter  the 
pig's  pail." 

"  The  night  I  had  a  dreadful  dream  and  heard  the  earthquake, ' 
said  Say,  thinking  aloud,  involuntarily.  "  And  mother  went 
down  to  get  me  a  drink  of  water,  Eben.  I  remember  it  all  very 
well." 

She  said  these  last  words  very  deliberately,  looking  him  in  the 
face  as  she  spoke. 

"  Did  she  fetch  it  ?  "  said  Eben,  carelessly. 

"  No.  Her  light  went  out  and  she  came  back.  I  remember  it 
all  quite  well." 

Her  voice  took  almost  a  defiant  tone,  but  the  quick  blood  leaped 
to  her  cheek.  Was  it  resentment  at  the  possible  shadow  of  an  ill 
thought  in  Eben's  mind  ?  Or  was  it  a  hotter  flash  as  she  called 
to  remembrance  the  old  "  earthquake,"  and  the  time,  years  after, 
when  she  heard  it  again  ;  when  her  grandfather's  will  was  found 
in  the  panel  cupboard  ;  and  she  had  cried  out  in  her  surprise  and 
her  mother  had  clenched  her  hand  so  cruelly  ?  Whatever  it  was, 
she  crushed  the  horrible  intuition  down,  and  would  not  question  it. 

"  It  was  a  metnore-able  night,"  remarked  the  man,  senten- 
tiously. 

"  Go  on,  Eben,"  said  Say,  in  her  calm,  deliberate  tones  again. 
"  That  isn't  all.  Why  did  you  think  we  ought  to  have  '  another 
rummage  ?  '  ' 

"  Well,  ther  was  light  throwed.  On  my  mind.  That's  the  part 
that  ain't  needful  ter  go  inter  now.  Ef  the  paper  ain't  never  found, 
'twon't  do  no  good,  an'  ef  'tis,  why  then  it  wouldn't  be  the  least- 
est  mite  o'  consequence.  'Twas  only  light  throwed  on  my  mind 
'n  Hulcly's  ;  that's  all." 

"  You  must  tell  me,  Eben.  I  must  have  all  the  light  there  is. 
My  mother  was  anxious  about  this,  I  know.  It  was  in  her  last 
thoughts.  Now,  it  is  my  work,  for  her  sake.  You  must  tell  me." 

"  'T  might  be  a  satisfaction,  both  ways,  mebbe,"  said  Eben, 
thoughtfully.  "  It's  a  kinder  "v  a  burden  to  me  ;  'n  you  want  it. 
Well,  the  fact  is,  Parson  Fairbrother  was  a  man  that  was  livin'  a 
Me-more,  'n  keepin'  a  Diary  accordin'.  I  found  out  that  much ; 
thought  it  likely ;  an'  I've  seen  the  diary ;  Miss  Malviny  showed  it 
ter  me.  That  was  all  fair  'n  square,  warn't  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  Eben.     Don't  stop." 

"  I  never  see  it  but  jest  that  once,  'n  not  for  more  'n  three 
minutes  then  ;  but  the  leaves  come  open,  fer  all  the  world,  's  the 
hymnbook  dooes  at  meetin'  sometimes ;  t'  the  very  number  'n  line. 
An'  there  it  was.  I  koted  it  t'  yer  mother.  'N  it  stirred  her  up. 


308  The  Gayworthys. 

•June  the  27th,  18 — .  Advised  an'  strengthened  brother  G —  in  a 
just  act.  Set  my  hand  to  it  with  him.  By  the  promptin'  o*  the 
Lord  the  widder  'n  the  fatherless  is  pervided  fur.'  Now  yer've  got 
the  hull  critter,  horns  'n  huffs  'n  all." 

•  "  I    thank   you,  Eben.     I  shall  never   rest   until   that   paper  is 
found." 

She  said  it  very  quietly,  but  all  the  emphasis  that  could  have 
been  laid  upon  the  words  would  have  added  nothing  to  the  still 
force  of  her  air  of  resolution. 

"  Only  it  mayn't  be  anywers,  yer  know,"  said  Eben,  provision- 
ally. 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me  of  the  Diary,"  she  went  on,  disregard- 
ing his  words.  "  I  know  now  what  was  in  my  mother's  mind,  and 
how  it  came.  I  know  what  it  was  she  wanted,  and  why." 

With  these  words  she  turned  and  walked  away. 

"Ef  yer  dew,"  said  Eben,  relieving  his  feelings  as  she  moved 
out  of  hearing,  "  yer  know  what  the  old  Nickerdemus  hisself 
couldn't  find  out  afore." 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  know  that  the  light  "  throwed  "  on 
Eben's  mind,  had  been  a  light  to  hers,  as  well.  That  she  came 
direct  to  Hilbury  intent  upon  this  duty.  No  wonder  her  poor  eyes 
were  so  restless,  and  eager,  and  distressed. 

The  child's  heart  put  this  pious  fraud  upon  itself,  and  would  dis- 
cern no  clearer;  would  glance  no  further  back. 

"  I  will  do  it  for  you,  mother  '  "  she  cried  out  into  the  silence, 
while  the  quick  tears  sprang.  And  she  seemed  to  see  that  quiet- 
ing look  again  ;  calmed,  yet  pleading ;  as  if  the  eyes  said,  always, 
"  Will  you  ? — You  are  sure  you  will  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FINDING. 

"  AUNT  BECSIE,"  said  Say,  suddenly,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
something.  About  my  grandfather's  will." 

After  a  little  pause, — "  I  stand  in  my  mother's  place,  now.  I 
shall  have  some  business  and  responsibility.  I  want  to  know  just 
where  I  stand." 

"  It  was  a  very  simple  will,  Say  ;  made  many  years  before  his 
death,  and  never  altered.  All  he  had,  except  this  homestead,  after 
some  legacies  were  paid, — your  Aunt  Prue's  and  Huldah's,  and 
some  others, — was  divided  equally  among  us.  Aunt  Prue  had  five 
thousand  dollars.  The  homestead  was  to  remain  for  the  use  of 
either  or  both  of  us,  Joanna  and  me,  so  long  as  we  should  choose 
to  continue  here,  unmarried.  Eventually,  if  you  lived,  it  would 
come  to"  you,  Say." 

"  To  me  ?     How  ?  " 


Finding.  300 

"  To  you  unless — there  should  be  a  grandson.  To  the  eldest 
male  heir  ;  failing  males,  to  the  eldest  female.  It  was  a  little  bit 
of  his  old  English  feeling  ;  he  wanted  to  keep  the  old  estate  in  the 
family.'' 

"  Aunt  Prue  had  five  thousand  dollars.     Was  that  all  ?  " 

'  Yes ;  we  wished  to  make  it  more  ;  for  the  property  was  far 
larger  at  the  time  of  your  grandfather's  death,  than  when  the  will 
had  been  made.  But  she  would  not  receive  it." 

"  And  there  was  nothing  for  Gershom  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  very  little  boy  when  the  will  was  made  ;  and  they  had 
not  come  here  then,  to  live." 

"  But  grandfather  was  so  fond  of  him  !  Don't  you  think  it 
strange  he  did  not  alter  his  will,  and  give  him  something  after- 
wards ?  " 

"  I  daresay  he  thought  of  it.  But  people  put  things  off  so,  Say  ! 
Greater  things  than  wills.  We  urged  him,  and  his  mother  both  . 
but  they  would  let  us  do  nothing.  Aunt  Prue  is  very  proud  ;  and 
very  blunt  and  honest,  Say." 

"  And  Gershom  is,  too ;  honest  and  proud  to  hardness." 

"  So  there  it  ended  ;  we  could  not  force  them  to  bear  an  unwill- 
irg  obligation." 

"  But,  Aunt  Becsie,  there  was  a  paper  talked  of,  once ;  and 
searched  for.  There  may  be  something  yet,  that  is  waiting  to  be 
found !  " 

"  It  was  thoroughly  sought  for ;  it  might  have  been  nothing ; 
and  at  all  events,  we  had  to  rest  content.  It  could  never  be 
found." 

"  But,  auntie,  think  of  all  the  places  where  a  little  paper  might 
lie  hid !  And  I  believe  it  was  something !  Eben  thought  so,  and 
he  signed  it.  He  wrote  to  mother  ;  he  wasn't  easy,  you  know." 

"  How  did  you  know  all  this  ?     You  were  such  a  child ! " 

"  People  come  to  know  things  somehow,  when  it's  time.  And 
it's  time  now  for  me  to  know  this.  I  am  honest  and  proud  too, 
auntie  !  I  should  like  to  search,  too.  It's  my  turn  now  !  " 

"  It  seemed  so  likely,  Say,  that  if  my  father  had  written  and  kept 
such  a  paper,  it  would  have  been  found  with  the  will.  And  there 
v.  as  nothing  there.  It  is  very  true  that  a  small  thing  could  be 
hidden  away  in  many  a  common  place ;  but  there  are  likely  places 
to  look  in  ;  there  are  threads  of  probability  to  guide  us ;  or  we 
should  be  astray  among  wild  possibilities  always." 

"  It  was  in  that  old  wallet.     I  remember  when  they  took  it  out." 

"  Yes  ;  quite  by  itself  in  that  small  pocket.  The  large  one  was 
full  of  old  letters,  arranged  by  their  dates  and  tied.  It  was  all 
looked  over." 

"  And  the  wallet  was  in  the  panel  cupboard.  Auntie,  I  should 
like  to  look  that  old  cupboard  over.  Are  the  same  things  there  ?  " 

"  Mostly.  But  it  is  quite  useless,  Say.  It  has  all  been  done 
before." 


3io  The  Gayworthys. 

"/haven't  done  it;  and  it's  my  turn  now,"  persisted  Say. 

"  Just  think  of  the  old  books.  It  might  lie  between  the  leaves 
of  one;  or,  it  might  have  slipped  down  into  a  crack.  May  I  look 
anywhere  I  like  ?  " 

"  Yes,  anywhere.  I  can  see  the  uselessness  ;  but  I  can  under- 
stand your  feeling.  And  I  suppose  we  can  never  be  too  careful  to 
be  true,"  said  Aunt  Rebecca. 

"  And  if  I  find  a  crack  deep  enough  to  hold  anything,  may  I  have 
Mr.  Chisler  here  to  take  down  the  boards  ?  " 

Say  spoke  playfully  ;  but  her  heart  was  in  her  purpose  none  the 
less.  Aunt  Becsie  laughed  ;  but  she  did  not  ridicule.  The  child 
should  have  her  way  and  her  turn. 

There  came  a  rainy  day  among  the  hills,  in  early  August. 

People  who  live  in  cities,  think,  perhaps,  they  know  what  a 
rainy  day  is  ;  a  day  when  there  will  be  no  visitors,  and  the  bell- 
wire  has  comparative  rest ;  when  they  can  sit  in  wrappers  if  they 
like,  and  read  books,  or  write  letters,  or  do  queer,  stormy-weather 
work  that  they  would  not  bring  out  in  the  sunshine ;  when  the 
streets  seem  to  them,  deserted,  although  there  is  yet  the  rattle  of 
incessant  carriages,  bearing  people  who  must  go  and  cannot  walk ; 
and  a  continual  bob  of  shiny  umbrella-tops,  up  before  the  parlor 
windows.  They  feel  very  safe  and  alone  ;  nobody  will  come.  But 
they  know  nothing  of  the  utter  quietude  of  a  rainy  day  indoors, 
among  the  hills,  and  of  the  still  noise  out.  When  the  drops  come 
down  with  their  soft  sweep  and  whish  among  the  leaves  and  grass  ; 
when  nobody  goes  up  and  down  the  road ;  when  the  oxen  are  all 
housed,  and  the  fanners  busy  in  their  barns  ;  when  the  very  chick- 
ens run  under  the  fences  and  the  brushpile,  and  only  the  ducks  are 
abroad  and  gay.  When  the  piles  of  gray  clouds  hang  against  the 
mountain-sides,  or  shift  about  and  break  away,  making  all  sorts 
of  new  geography,  of  islands  and  mountains,  where  the  cliffs  and 
ridges  rend  them,  and  come  through  in  patches  ;  when  new  relays 
of  vaporous  hosts  sweep  up  the  windy  horizon,  and  down  the 
hither  slopes  like  charging  squadrons ;  when  earth  lies  passive  in 
the  clutch  of  the  storm,  and  through  all  the  wide  heaven  is  the 
thronging  and  hurry  and  rush  of  the  great  elements  at  work. 

The  separation, — the  solitude, — the  grandeur  of  a  summer-day's 
tempest  like  this,  is  felt  nowhere  as  in  the  hill-country. 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  on.  They  had  been  all  day  sitting 
in  Rebecca's  room.  The  storm  was  wellnigh  spent.  The  wind 
had  lulled,  and  the  rain  came  down  more  gently,  like  the  tears  of 
a  half-soothed  child.  The  mist-robe  lay  torn  and  fluttering  along 
the  hills,  wreathing  itself  in  soft  folds ;  and  here  and  there,  be- 
hind, some  crest,  bared  momentarily,  caught  the  coming  gleam, 
and  lay  in  a  green-golden  light. 

Say  sat  by  the  window,  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  sill,  looking 
out  with  a  restlessness  in  her  eyes,  on  the  shifting  cloud-forms,  and 
the  fair,  freshened  fields,  and  the  red  gable,  shiny-wet,  down  the 


Finding.  311 

hill  there,  between  which  and  this  old  house  corner,  had  been  such 
secret  sympathy  and  thought-interchange  of  years. 

Say  was  restless  ;  like  one  possessed,  as  people  sometimes  say. 
Possessed  with  a  thing  that  would  not  leave  her  quiet,  until  it 
should  be  accomplished  at  her  hand.  It  had  been  upon  her  all 
these  weeks. 

Aunt  Rebecca  was  anxious  about  her.  She  had  grown  thin. 
She  had  little  appetite.  She  was  always  preoccupied.  Her  eyes 
searched  into  corners  ;  went  dreamily,  in  wandering  glances, 
along  the  very  floors,  as  if  always  looking  vaguely  for  what  was 
lost. 

There  was  scarcely  a  book  in  the  house  that  she  had  not  run 
through  with  fluttering  scrutiny.  The  panel  cupboard  had  been 
ransacked  ;  only  its  thorough  old  workmanship,  wherein  no  crack 
had  been  left  or  started,  saved  it,  apparently,  from  impetuous 
demolition.  She  was  determined  that  this  thing  she  sought  for, 
should  be  somewhere.  The  thought  of  it  was  upon  her  always. 
She  was  secretly  suspicious  of  carpets  that  had  been  up  and  down 
a  dozen  times.  She  would  have  liked  to  get  behind  wall-paper, 
and  pry  away  the  very  wainscot.  It  was  like  an  insanity.  Some- 
where, in  this  old  home,  lay  a  long-buried  secret ;  she  would  not 
be  persuaded,  for  an  instant,  that  it  had  utterly  perished.  Some- 
where, lay,  waiting,  this  paper  that  she  must  find.  She  said  little ; 
but  it  was  in  her  eyes ;  in  her  whole  expression  and  bearing. 

"  You  are  growing  morbid,  Say,  in  this  fancy  of  yours.  It  is 
almost  a  monomania." 

"  It  is  laid  upon  me  to  do.  It  presses  harder  every  day.  The 
more  I  fail,  the  more  something  seems  continually  to  say  to  me, 
*  You  must  not  give  it  up.'  Aunt  Rebecca,  I  cannot  help  it." 

They  exchanged  these  words  without  preface,  as  Say  sat  there 
in  the  window,  this  rainy  August  afternoon. 

Suddenly,  Say  started,  and  turned  round. 

"  Aunt  Becsie  ?  You  have  never  given  me  the  old  letter-case, 
itself ! " 

"  No,  dear;  because  it  is  quite  empty." 

"I  have  looked  in  a  great  many  empty  places.  I  must  look 
everywhere.  I  climbed  the  other  day  upon  the  table,  and  felt  all 
along  the  dusty  top  of  that  old  chest  of  drawers.  I  pulled  the 
drawers  out,  and  looked  underneath  and  behind  them.  I  have 
lifted  the  pictures  from  against  the  walls.  I  am  always  thinking 
of  thin,  narrow  spaces,  where  a  paper  might  be  slipped  and  hid." 

"  Say !  this  is  dreadful !  Have  you  thought  what  this  implies  ? 
Such  a  paper  could  be  hid  in  no  such  place  by  accident." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  Say  repeated,  feebly,  like  one  powerless  and 
driven  on. 

Rebecca  rose,  and  moved  toward  a  curious,  tall,  triangular 
cabinet  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  between  the  fireplace 
and  the  door  leading  out  into  the  kitchen-chamber.  She  stood  up 


312  The  Gayworthys. 

«n  a  chair,  and  put   her  hand  over  the   top,  behind   the    quaint, 
carved  moulding,  and  brought  down  a  key. 

With  this,  she  opened  two  small,  upper  doors. 

Say  watched  her  eagerly.  She  had  not  asked  for  this,  because 
she  knew  it  was  the  one  sacred  place  which  Aunt  Rebecca  kept  to 
herself.  Here  were  her  letters  from  her  dead  brother  Ben,  written 
when  he  was  away  from  home,  at  Winthorpe  school.  Here  were 
scores  of  little  relics  of  the  dear  old  past,  whereof  none  but  she 
knew  the  association.  Her  mother's  little  ornaments,  that  had 
fallen  to  her  share,  lay  here.  Here,  also,  she  had  put  away  the 
old,  worn,  yellow  letters,  of  courtship  and  friendship,  that  had 
been  found  in  the  faded,  shapeless  letter-case.  This  lay  with  them, 
folded  into  something  of  its  first  intended  form,  and  tied  about, 
neatly,  with  its  ribbon-string.  But  it  was  empty.  Aunt  Rebecca 
was  very  precise ;  and  its  old,  bulgy,  untidy  look  had  annoyed  her, 
among  the  delicate  order  of  all  else. 

She  opened  the  drawer  in  which  these  thing;  lay,  and  drew  forth 
the  wallet.  Say  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  Don't  open  it,  auntie  !     Let  me  ! " 

"  Poor  child !  When  will  you  give  this  over  ?  You  pain  me, 
Say ! " 

"  Don't  mind  me,  auntie.     If  we  can  only  find  the  Truth  !  " 

Then,  like  some  dumb  creature  that  has  found  a  thing  its 
instinct  treasures, — she  turned  away  and  flitted  to  her  corner 
with  it. 

Rebecca  busied  herself  before  the  open  cabinet  again. 

Suddenly  a  cry. 

The  resistless  propensity  to  think  always  of  "  thin,  narrow 
spaces  where  a  paper  might  be  slipped  and  hid,"  seized  instantly 
the  possibility  that  lay  here.  At  first  sight  of  the  frayed  slit  in 
the  brocaded  lining,  it  swooped  upon  the  truth. 

"  How  strange !  how  blind  !  "  was  her  inward  ejaculation,  as  a 
tumult  of  apprehension  and  certainty  rushed  over  her,  and  an 
inarticulate  cry  escaped  her  lips,  as  her  fingers  sought  nervously, 
and  touched  upon — something,  at  last ! 

A  tremor  took  her.  It  was  coming.  This  that  she  had  longed 
for  ;  that  she  had  vowed  to  compass.  The  truth  should  come  to 
light. 


Finding.  313 

She  dared  not  prove  it  suddenly, — recklessly.  It  was  a  thing 
to  touch  with  a  prayer.  She  gathered  up  the  loosened  folds  and 
sprang  away  to  her  own  room,  with  that  one  quick  cry.  Round 
through  the  great  kitchen  chamber,  to  the  dimity  bedroom,  where 
she  shut  the  door  and  put  the  button  over  the  latch,  and  went 
down  by  the  bedside  on  her  knees. 

The  old  wallet  lay  open  along  the  bed.  Her  head  was  down  an 
instant  between  her  hands.  She  could  not  think,  in  words.  Her 
heart  gave  two  great  springs. 

"  Oh,  God  ! — oh,  my  mother ! " 

Then  she  put  her  finger  back  into  the  opening.  Her  pure, 
honest,  earnest  touch  fell  where  Jane's  had  fallen  last. 

She  drew  the  paper  forth. 

A  tiny  thing  rolled  with  it,  on  the  white  counterpane.  A  little 
pin-point  of  light. 

It  flashed  over  the  whole  long  mystery,  and  made  it  clear. 
Horribly  clear,  to  the  instant  apprehension  of  the  child,  bearing 
penance,  here,  for  her  mother's  old,  mute  sin. 

A  recognition  and  a  memory  leaped,  each  to  the  other,  striking 
fire  of  evidence. 

This  particle  of  precious  crystal ;  the  wonderful  old  ring  her 
mother  wore  when  Say  had  been  a  child,  whose  tiny  gems  were 
placed  to  spell  a  word ;  the  empty  setting  at  the  end  where  a 
diamond  had  been  ;  lost  out,  ever  so  long  ago,  she  remembered, 
one  summer, — when  they  had  been  at  Hilbury !  Cast  aside  ever 
since,  and  lying,  now,  in  the  little  jewel-case  that  held  her  trinkets. 
Ruby,  emerald,  garnet,  amethyst,  ruby, — the  diamond  atom  gone. 

That  which  keeps  the  delicate  links  safe  in  the  dead  rock, 
whereby  men  spell  the  secrets  of  old  cycles,  takes  care  also  of  all 
minutest,  marvelous,  most  precarious  links  whereby  a  knowledge 
is  to  come.  Nothing  is  strange  or  difficult,  in  this  old  world, 
written  all  over  with  frail  records,  yet  unperishing,  of  life,  and  fate, 
and  human  deed. 

There  is  nothing  hidden,  but  shall  be  made  manifest — when 
once  the  hour  has  come. 

She  could  not  rush  to  proclaim  that  she  had  found  it.  Fifteen 
minutes  after,  she  lifted  the  button  from  her  latch,  threw  back  the 
door,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  waited. 


314  The  Gayworthys. 

Rebecca  came.  Pale  and  quiet,  Say  sat  there ;  knowing  that 
she  would  come.  Her  earnest  eyes  lifted  themselves  up  and  met 
Rebecca's  face,  with  a  strange  calm  in  them. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said  ;  the  paper  lying  open  upon  her  lap ;  her 
hands  laid,  or  rather  dropped  passively  across  it.  "  Send  for  Aunt 
Prue  and  Gershom,  please." 

She  did  not  offer  to  give  or  show  it.  There  was  a  singular  still 
assumption  in  the  young  girl,  of  the  right  and  part  she  had  in  this 
family  event  and  crisis. 

"  It  concerns  us  all,  Say,  you  know,"  said  Aunt  Rebecca,  with 
a  shade  of  rebuking  expectation  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes,  auntie,"  returned  Say,  with  a  look  that  pleaded  to  have 
its  pain,  its  unreasonableness,  even,  borne  with.  "  But  them  most, 
and  me.  It  is  between  us  first.  It  must  be.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion with  you.  You  are  honest  and  true — you  and  Aunt  Joanna. 
Wait,  just  a  little." 

For  the  child's  sake,  sitting  there  with  this  strange  spell  upon 
her,  Rebecca  had  patience ;  setting  aside  her  own  rightful  and 
grave  interest.  There  was  a  something,  also,  that  she  could  not 
have  disputed  if  she  would.  Something  in  the  girl's  air,  strong 
and  authorized ;  something  in  the  very  gravity  of  this  disclosure 
that  was  impending.  It  was  not  a  thing  to  be  clutched  at — to  be 
pounced  upon.  There  is  an  instinct  of  decorous  order,  delaying 
impulse,  in  the  momentous  arrivals  of  life. 

Miss  Gayworthy  went  down-stairs,  and  gave  a  direction. 

Gershom  Vorse  had  been  for  the  greater  part  of  this  interval  of 
time  since  that  pleasant  spring-day  when  he  and  Blackmere  had 
come  home  together,  at  the  hill-farm,  with  his  mother.  He  had 
been  up  and  down,  between  Hilbury  and  the  city  and  a  seashore 
town  beyond,  where  a  great  ship  was  building,  that  he  was  to  com- 
mand. But  there  had  been  long,  quiet  weeks,  such  as  he  might 
not  have  again  for  years,  that  he  had  been  spending  with  his 
mother.  Blackmere  had  been  here,  too,  for  awhile ;  but  he  was 
like  the  great  amphibia ;  he  could  come  up  from  the  deep  for  a 
little,  to  live  and  breathe  on  absolute  dry  land  ;  he  could  not  stay 
long  without  a  sniff  of  the  salt  sea.  Gershom  was  here  now  by 
himself,  with  Cousin  Wealthy  and  his  mother. 

Say  had  seen  little  of  him  ;  that  little  under  restraint  of  her  great 


Finding.  315 

grief,  as  well  as  of  all  else  that  lay  between  the  two.  But  the  feel- 
ing of  his  neighborhood  had  been  a  strong  element  in  the  force 
that  had  impelled  and  possessed  her  in  all  these  weeks  of  one  per- 
sistent thought. 

If  she  could  only  do  it  now  !  He  might  never  come  back  again. 
He  might  never  know. 

It  was  done.     It  had  come.     It  lay  within  her  hand. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  a  covered  wagon  drove  into  th« 
yard. 

Rebecca  had  gone  back  to  Say  after  sending  off  her  messenge 
to  Wealthy's ;  but   she  had  not  stayed.     Say  hardly  heeded    he 
coming  in.     She  was  unlike  herself.     She  sat  there  saying  noth 
ir.g,  apparently  feeling  nothing  of  the  pause  that  ordinarily  seem 
almost   to   demand  speech ;  waiting,    only ;  holding  the   refolde* 
paper  fast  within  her  hand,  a  pale  resolve  and  expectation  on  he\ 
face.     Rebecca  would  not  watch  ;  she  asked  no  further  question ; 
she  went  away  softly,  presently,  and  waited  also  with  an  anxiety. 
She  saw  that  there  was  something  beyond  the  mere  finding,  and 
that  the  child  would  have  her  way. 

"  Send  them  into  the  little  room,  please,"  Say  said,  when  Miss 
Gayworthy  came  round  and  looked  in  upon  her,  before  descending 
to  meet  Prudence  Vorse  and  her  son. 

"  Send."  Rebecca  was  to  wait  a  little  yet  even.  Truly,  "  stand- 
ing in  her  mother's  place,"  the  girl  seemed  suddenly  to  take  the 
elder  right  upon  her.  The  good  lady  was  half-pained,  with  a  little 
natural  human  hurt  and  jealousy  ;  but  she  could  not  expostulate  ; 
there  was  too  real  an  earnestness  upon  the  child.  Let  it  be  so. 
Let  her  still  have  her  way.  God  grant  this  strange  high  tension  of 
nerve  and  will  may  end  in  nothing  worse. 

The  two — Gershom  Vorse  and  his  mother — were  led  into  the 
little  room. 

"  It  is  Say  who  wants  you.  Something  has  happened,  I  hardlj- 
know  what;"  and  very  much  surprised  at  their  summons  and  re- 
ception, they  waited  there  for  the  moment  while  Miss  Gayworthy 
left  them,  and  before  Say  came  in.  They  looked  up  wondering!;', 
as  the  quiet  figure  entered,  and  the  pale,  still  face  confronted  them. 
Say  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  the  three  stood  there  together. 
bv  themselves. 


316  The  Gayworthys. 

There  was  nothing  in  this  of  preparation  for  effect ;  no  touch  of 
dramatic  climax  ;  it  was  the  still  earnestness  of  a  hard,  imperative 
necessity  for  doing, — taxing  all  power  and  resolve,  and  leaving  no 
room  for  thought  of  what  appeared,  that  gave  intensity  to  the  little 
scene,  and  caused  it  to  shape  itself. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Aunt  Prue.  I  wanted  to  see  you  here.  I  have 
found  something."  Her  voice  came  dry  and  changed,  but  her 
tones  were  very  quiet.  "  Aunt  Prue — Gershom — I  am  here  in  my 
mother's  place,  to-day,  to  give  you  this." 

She  held  the  paper  out.  Old,  yellow,  it  almost  bore  its  story  on 
its  face. 

Prudence  Vorse  took  it,  and  Say  waited. 

Aunt  Prue  was  fifty-two  years  old.  She  took  her  spectacles  out 
of  her  pocket,  and  put  them  on.  Commonplaces  come  into  every- 
thing. 

She  opened  the  folds  mechanically,  and  her  eye  went  over  the 
lines  almost  without  surprise.  Nothing  could  have  so  surprised  or 
seized  such  hold  of  her  as  the  look  and  tone,  restrained  and  simple, 
yet  earnest  to  such  agony,  of  the  girl  who  stood  before  her,  wait- 
ing,— Jane  Gair's  child. 

What  this  thing  imported  to  herself  dropped  out  of  sight  as  she 
discerned  it,  in  view  of  what  it  had  imported  to  this  other. 

She  took  her  glasses  off  when  she  had  read.  She  took  off  with 
them  a  look  that  Say  had  known  her  face  by ;  a  hard  look  of  long 
years. 

She  reached  the  paper  to  her  son,  as  a  thing  to  be  thought  of 
presently ;  now  she  came  straight  over  toward  where  Say  stood. 
She  would  have  taken  her  by  the  hand. 

"  Not  yet,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  sharpness.  Then,  with 
one  caught  breath,  she  toned  her  voice  again  to  quietness. 

"  That  is  not  all.  Aunt  Prue,  I  am  here  for  my  mother.  It 
must  be  confessed.  It  was  a  hiding,  and — a  lie.  Aunt  Prue,  for- 
give me,  for  my  mother !  " 

Then  Prue  took  her  in  her  honest  arms.  Never,  even  as  a  little 
child,  had  she  held  her  so  before.  She  was  a  Gayworthy. 

Gershom  turned  away  a  little ;  a  red  flush  swept  up  over  his 
face,  and  a  great  heart-throb  swelled  into  his  throat.  There  was 
no  lying  blood  in  her  after  all ! 


Finding.  317 

But  Say  had  not  come  here  for  a  scene.  She  had  never  thought 
of  herself,  or  of  how  they  would  take  it.  It  had  all  been  for  her 
mother.  She  had  finished  her  work,  and  she  must  go. 

"  It  is  all  done,  now,"  she  said,  with  a  low,  long  sigh,  as  one 
might  who  had  voluntarily  and  bravely  borne  a  fearful  pain. 

"  I  am  so  thankful  !     Tell  it  to  Aunt  Rebecca." 

And,  almost  before  they  were  quite  aware, — before  Gershom  had 
recovered  himself,  and  come  to  her  with  his  outstretched  hand,  she 
had  withdrawn  herself,  and  gone,  in  the  same  still,  pale  way  that 
she  had  come. 

Afterward,  Rebecca  found  her  lying  on  her  bed,  white,  motion- 
less, exhausted,  peaceful ;  like  one  from  whom  a  tormenting  spirit 
had,  at  last,  gone  out. 

Aunt  Prue  came  up  and  kissed  her,  silently,  before  she  went. 
At  this,  two  tears  swelled  up  under  the  half-shut  lids,  and  rolled 
down,  softly,  over  the  pure,  pale  cheeks. 

She  took  this,  also,  for  her  mother. 

Perhaps  those  drops  of  innocent,  tender,  loving  pain,  went,  some- 
how, in  God's  mercy,  far  to  purge  the  sin-stain  of  a  late  repentant 
soul. 

All  Hilbury  came  to  know  it,  soon ;  not  the  whole ;  but  that  this 
paper  had  been  strangely  found.  All  Hilbury  wanted  to  know  all 
it  could  ;  and  what  all  Hilbury  demanded  and  came  to  know,  the 
reader  has  a  claim  for  also. 

This  was  the  paper. 

I  hereby  direct  that  in  the  division  and  disposal,  according  to 
any  will  that  I  may  leave,  or  otherwise,  of  whatever  estate  I  may 
die  possessed  of,  Prudence  Vorse,  child  of  my  late  wife,  Rachel,  by 
her  former  marriage,  or  her  son,  Gershom  Vorse,  inheriting  after 
her,  be  counted  and  considered  among  my  heirs,  to  take  such 
share  and  privilege  as  would  so  fall  to  her,  or  to  him  through  her, 
if  she,  the  said  Prudence  Vorse,  were  child  of  my  own  body. 

This  is  my  will,  to  the  setting  aside  of  anything  that  conflicts 
herewith,  in  any  writing  that  I  may  before  have  made ;  but  to 
the  altering  of  nothing  else,  except  that  this  is  to  take  the  place 
of  any  smaller  bequest  of  mine,  of  former  date,  to  the  said  Pru- 
dence, hereby  provided  for.  And  I  charge  my  heirs  and  whoUso- 


318  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

ever  into  whose  hands  this  writing  may  fall,  to  see  my  will  done  in 
this  thing. 

Signed,  this  night,  June  27th,  18 — . 

BENJAMIN  GAYWORTHY. 
In  presence  of 
FELIX  FAIRBROTHER, 
HULDAH  BROWN, 
EBENEZER  HATCH. 

They  were  all  honest  people.  They  asked  nothing  of  the  law. 
Neither  party  concerned  questioned  for  an  instant  "  whether  it 
would  stand."  It  was  the  plain  will  of  him  who  had  been  gone 
from  them  so  long,  solemnly  charged  upon  them  all. 

The  Hartshornes,  Miss  Gayworthy,  Sarah  Gair, — they  were  to 
make  this  thing  right. 

But  nobody,  save  Sarah  Gair  herself,  knew  what  it  was  to  be  for 
her  to  do. 

The  sale  of  the  house  in  Selport  had  been  effected ;  she  had  had 
letters  from  Mr.  Brinley,  apprising  her  that  she  must  come  to 
town  for  the  signing  of  necessary  papers,  and  the  final  settlement 
of  her  affairs.  Meanwhile,  she  wrote,  informing  him  fully  of  this 
new  posture  of  things ;  begging,  also,  that  the  business  might  be 
kept,  for  the  present,  carefully  between  her  own  knowledge  and 
his. 

Hilbury  was  greatly  exercised.  Eben  and  Huldah  were  under 
solemn  promise  to  Say.  It  was  thought  to  be  pure  accident  or 
Providence,  the  finding  of  this  momentous  writing,  so  long  con- 
cealed ;  and  it  was  turned  over  and  over  in  small  mouths  and 
minds,  as  great  marvels  and  Providences  are. 

Eben  and  Huldah  had  their  private  comparison  of  impressions, 
on  "  the  strange  way  things  had  worked." 

"  A  feller  can't  allers  fetch  a  thing,  hisself,"  quoth  the  blunt 
farmer,  "  ef  he  zs  a.  witness.  But, — it  gits  fetched  ! " 


Thrums  Again.  319 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THRUMS   AGAIN. 

MR.  BRINLEY  knew  better.  At  least,  man-fashion,  dealing  so 
with,  and  in  the  interest  of  a  young,  inexperienced  woman,  he 
thought  he  did.  When  Gershom  Vorse,  coming  down  to  Selport, 
sought  him  out  and  questioned  him,  he  let  out,  incontinently,  all 
the  cats  Say  thought  she  had  so  securely  tied  in  his  legal  and  ex- 
ecutorial  bag,  by  the  hard  knots  of  confidence  and  honor.  He 
humored  her  in  his  reply  ;  but  he  lifted  his  keen,  practical  eyebrows 
very  high  over  her  romance  of  self-beggary  and  magnificent  resti- 
tution. All  right,  doubtless,  in  moral  theory;  but  moral  theory 
was  not  the  only  thing  with  him  ;  far  less,  youthful  quixotism  of 
generosity.  There  was  also  common  sense,  which  lay  more  in  his 
line. 

Here  was  a  girl  with  fourteen  thousand  dollars  ;  the  sale  of  the 
house  had  given  her  three  thousand  above  the  mortgage  ;  there 
had  been  eleven  thousand  beside,  after  paying  all  that  had  been  in- 
curred in  their  year's  living  and  business  expenses.  All  at  once, 
she  finds  herself  to  be  one  of  three  persons  who  are  to  make  up  to 
a  fourth,  a  withheld  inheritance  of  thirty  thousand.  Everybody 
else  concerned  being  amply  able  ;  she,  alone,  forced  to  render  up 
nearly  all  her  living.  And  this  must  be  done  quietly,  forsooth  ;  the 
friends  kept  ignorant  of  actual  facts  till  all  should  be  securely  ac- 
complished. 

Not  so  fast,  Miss  Gair.  Mr.  Brinley  took  the  reins  very  quietly 
into  his  own  hands. 

"  '  How  will  this  leave  her  ?  ' — With  just  about  enough  to  buy 
her  three  or  four  gowns  and  a  bonnet,  in  a  year ! "  returned  the 
lawyer  to  Captain  Vorse's  questions. 

"  And  she  knows  this  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  As  women  generally  know  such  things.  She's  on 
the  high-ropes  of  justice  and  magnanimity  just  now ;  wants  it  to 
be  done  at  once,  and  kept  quiet ;  the  bonnets  and  gowns  will  come 
afterwards,  somehow !  Women  can't  calculate ;  especially  girls. 
And  of  all  girls,  this  one,  more  particularly." 


The  Gayworthys. 

This  one  !    Jane  Gain's  child ! 

Gershom  Vorse  walked  down  to  the  railway  station  on  the  day 
when  the  Hilbury  party  was  expected.  They  were  all  coming  :  his 
mother,  the  Hartshornes,  Rebecca,  and  Say.  There  had  been  a 
plan  for  coming  down,  since  early  spring ;  Jane's  arrival,  illness, 
and  death  had  put  it  by  ;  now,  there  was  all  this  businessVo  do,  and 
it  might  as  well  be  all  transacted  together. 

Captain  Vorse  had  engaged  comfortable  rooms  for  them  at  a 
hotel ;  he  was  to  meet  them  on  this  Tuesday,  at  the  coming  in  of 
the  northern  train. 

They  were  strange  thoughts  he  had,  sitting  there  in  the  waiting, 
room  those  twenty  minutes  before  the  cars  were  due. 

Were  there  a  thought-photograph,  it  might  take  curious  instan- 
taneous views  at  these  momentary  meeting-points  of  diverse  and 
incongruous  lives.  For  after  people  have  got  their  tickets,  and  have 
asked  their  questions,  and  counted  up  their  railway  wraps  and 
parcels,  and  find  ten  minutes  or  so  upon  their  hands,  they  do  think 
queer  thoughts  about  themselves  and  about  each  other. 

There  was  a  knot  of  Selport  school  girls,  going  five  or  six  miles 
home  to  dinner,  by  a  branch  train,  presently  ;  there  came  in  with 
them  all  the  atmosphere  of  school-chat  and  young  egotism,  ignor- 
ing all  else  in  the  great  world  but  its  small  growing  self.  There 
were  girls  of  a  different  social  order,  going  out  of  town  to  "  places," 
with  their  bundles  and  tickets  held  in  fast  gripe ;  of  these  the 
greater  part  to  come  back,  with  turned-up  noses,  by  return  trains  ; 
there  being  so  few  "first  class"  opportunities,  with  hot-and-cold- 
water-conveniences,  and  adequate  visiting  and  convivial  privileges, 
in  this  line  of  life.  There  was  a  bride  of  three  or  four  hours'  mak- 
ing, very  conscious  and  important,  in  her  fresh,  delicate  travelling 
dress,  and  lavender  ribbons  ;  there  were  hard,  solitary  men,  on 
runs  of  business,  with  eyes  and  noses  and  chins  all  sharpened  to 
the  business  point.  There  were  friends  to  see  off  friends ;  and 
friends  to  see  friends  back  again.  There  were  innumerable  babies. 
And  trains  were  announced  and  departed  ;  and  people's  thoughts 
were  broken  off  short ;  and  there  was  great  gathering  up  of  parcels 
and  shawls  at  last  minutes ;  and  babies  were  taken  by  surprise,  as 
the  little  miserables  continually  are,  being  shouldered  again,  just  as 
they  had  settled  comfortably  in  arms,  or  subsided,  with  no  ques- 


Thrums  Again.  321 

tions  asked,  just  when  the  world  around  had  begun  to  be  vaguely 
intelligible  and  interesting  from  their  temporary  outlook.  Tired 
mothers  gave  the  last  consolidating  shake  and  twist,  and  papas 
came  in  in  time  to  put  on  all  the  small  bonnets  upside  down ;  and 
through  all  this  and  much  more,  Gershom  Vorse  waited  and  thought 
one  thought ;  over  and  over  ;  out  and  out. 

Seventeen  years  ago,  a  thing  had  been  hidden  away.  A  thing 
that  concerned  his  worldly  fortune,  which  all  this  time  he  had  done 
without.  All  this  time  he  had  gone  his  way,  unwitting  of  it,  and 
the  world,  so,  had  taken  a  different  turn  with  him,  for  life. 

Was  it  only  this  paper  that  had  lain  hidden  ?  Was  it  only 
worldly  fortune  that  stood  affected  ?  What  other  thing  was  this 
which  had  come  to  light  with  it,  whereof  he  had  been  unknowing, 
unbelieving,  also,  all  these  years  ?  What  other  possible  gift  of  God 
that  had  been  so  withheld,  or  thrust  away  ? 

The  truth  of  a  human  soul,  that  he  would  not  see  ;  that  a  false- 
hood quite  outside  of  it  had  blinded  him  to.  The  love  of  a  human 
heart  that  had  "  grown  up  with  him  in  it ;  "  that  he  had  ignored 
and  gone  without,  half-living  ;  that  he  would  not  take  when,  for  a 
moment,  it  lay  before  him  ;  that,  crushing  his  own  love  down,  he 
had  wounded  sorely,  and  crushed  out  also ;  that  shone  now  to  his 
thought  as  something  afar,  that  he  might  never  reach.  He — the 
hard  man  of  thirty ;  grown  into  the  thing  that  he  had  willed  him- 
self ;  distrustful,  unsatisfied  ;  "  watching,  carping,  fault-finding ;  " 
with  but  one  love  and  one  friendship  to  keep  him  human, — his 
mother,  and  the  man  of  harder  life  than  his. 

And  now  his  very  honor  rose  up  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  his 
love,  that  sprang,  as  it  were,  from  out  its  grave  where  he  had 
buried  it. 

His  honor — his  pride — that  fumed,  helpless.  She  had  him  at 
her  mercy ;  the  foot  of  her  nobleness  was  upon  his  neck.  It  was 
useless  to  resist ;  to  say  that  he  would  have  nothing  of  this  money  ; 
it  was  not  she  alone  who  held  it ;  moreover  it  was  not  his  yet  to 
reject. 

They  had  no  right,  Prudence  Vorse  and  her  son,  to  refuse  these 
other  upright  consciences  a  justice  to  themselves, — to  the  memory 
of  their  father,  the  just  man  gone.  There  was  something  in  the 
clear  nature  of  the  woman  who  would  not  take  a  strawberry  unpaid 


322  The  Gayworthys. 

for,  and  who  would  take  her  due  to  the  value  of  a  cent,  which  rec- 
ognized the  plain  right,  and  demanded  it,  wherever  it  lay.  The 
right  to  pay,  no  less  than  to  receive,  a  due  ;  it  was  the  concession, 
more  generous  often  than  a  gift,  which  one  honorable  soul  must 
make  another. 

So  the  strong  man  fought  with  his  thoughts,  waiting  there,  seated, 
regarding  absently  the  life  about  him,  or  pacing  restlessly  the  now 
vacated  platform,  as  the  time  came  and  passed  when  the  train 
should  have  been  there. 

Fifteen  minutes  behind  ;  then  it  came  thundering  in. 

Instantly,  a  crowd,  and  a  rush,  and  a  shouting,  and  a  hurling  of 
luggage,  all  over  the  space  where  a  moment  before  had  been  almost 
emptiness  and  stillness.  In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  he  held  his 
place,  watching ;  and  as  the  crowd  resolved  itself,  they  emerged 
from  it  at  last, — the  little  party  that  belonged  to  him, — Gabriel 
Hartshorne,  Joanna,  Rebecca,  Prudence,  and  Say. 

There  was  a  great  hotel  coach  in  waiting ;  there  was  a  porter 
ready  to  take  checks  and  transfer  luggage.  Gabriel  took  care  of 
his  wife  and  sister  ;  Gershom  had  his  mother  and  Say  to  his  share. 
So  they  moved  on,  and  went  out  together,  after  a  very  hurried 
greeting  and  grasp  of  hands.  A  minute  that  had  loomed  up  almost 
like  a  life,  to  two  thoughts  there,  had  come  and  was  over.  Over, 
with  scarcely  a  word,  or  other  outward  thing  to  mark  it ;  as  some 
of  our  intensest  moments  are  ;  she  had  had  her  hand  upon  his  arm ; 
he  had  held  her  close,  and  she  had  clung,  in  the  crowd  and  tumult 
of  an  instant ;  that  was  all ;  they  had  been  just  like  any  other 
people ;  as  Say  had  hoped,  looking  forward  to  this  meeting  with 
something  of  the  old  questioning  and  dread,  they  might  be  ;  as 
Gershom,  with  a  strange,  new  apprehension,  was  beginning  to  fear 
they  must  be. 

"If  he  would  only  treat  her,  and  trust  her,  now,  as  he  did  the 
rest ! " 

"  If  he  had  not  been  a  fool,  she  might  have  been  to  him  what  the 
whole  world,  perhaps,  did  not  hold  for  him,  now  ! " 

The  current  of  their  two  lives  set  together  again,  for  awhile ; 
neither  could  help  that ;  both  were  strangely  and  secretly  glad ; 
both  had  felt  this  point  of  meeting  from  afar.  Yet  Gershom  was 
writhing  in  his  man's  pride,  that  felt  itself  stabbed  ;  under  this  late, 


Thrums  Again.  323 

stinging  recognition  of  a  thing  better  than  legacy  of  land  or  money 
lost  to  him,  hidden  away,  put  behind  him  with  his  own  hand,  for 
years ;  years  that  had  settled  all  his  cheerless  life  for  him.  And 
Say  was  hoping,  only,  to  be  treated  like  the  rest,  at  last ;  only 
thinking  of  this  one  thing  that  remained  to  her  to  do, — this  act  of 
restitution  for  her  mother's  sake  ;  thinking  that  she  should  stand  at 
last,  for  a  moment,  on  the  manifest  level  of  this  man  that  had  de- 
spised her ;  side  by  side,  and  face  to  face,  with  him ;  and  then  go, 
contentedly,  her  own  way,  alone.  She  thought,  even,  that  she  had 
ceased  to  love  him,  in  these  long  hard  years. 

"  There  is  one  way  to  help  it,"  said  Gershom  Vorse  to  his 
mother,  when  he  had  ended  telling  her  all  that  Mr.  Brinley  had 
made  known. 

"There  is  but  one  thing  for  you  to  do,"  said  Prue,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.  "  If  you  can  do  it,  as  a  man  should,  and  not 
make  it  a  worse  thing  than  the  other." 

Into  the  eyes  she  searched,  there  came  a  flash. 

"  You  say  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  do  say  it,"  said  Prudence  Vorse,  reading  the  certitication  of- 
his  life-story  that  she  guessed,  in  that  one,  quick  gleam. 

An  hour  after,  Prue  got  the  rest  away  ;  Gabriel  and  Joanna  were 
easily  sent  off  together ;  and  she  took  Rebecca  to  her  own  room 
on  a  pretence,  and  kept  her  there  with  the  truth ;  and  Gershom 
Vorse  and  Sarah  Gair  were  left  together  in  the  parlor  appropriated 
to  the  use  of  this  family  party.  Alone,  together,  these  two*;  who 
had  not  been  so,  since  the  moment,  five  years  since,  when  Say  had 
given  him  the  word, — God's  word, — that  had  come  to  her  in  her 
pain,  and  they  had  parted. 

Straight  to  her  side,  with  a  purpose  in  his  face,  the  sailor  came. 
She  looked  up  as  he  stood  beside  her,  and  all  through  her  this  out- 
shining purpose  of  his  quivered  and  thrilled. 

"  I've  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said.  It  sounded  short  and 
abrupt,  and  he  did  not  use  her  name.  But  there  was  a  something, 
not  quick  and  harsh,  but,  rather,  earnest  and  deep,  in  his  tone  ;  and 
that  she  caught,  and  it  thrilled  her  the  more. 

"  Before  all  this  is  done.  It  is  more  than  this  will  of  my  grand- 
father's that  you  have  brought  to  light.  You've  shown  me  your- 
self. There's  more  than  money-justice  to  be  done.  I've  wronged 


324  The  Gayworthys. 

you,  in  my  thinking  of  you,  all  my  life.  I've  wronged  you,  and  my- 
self ;  because — I  love  you." 

Dead  silence.  A  flush,  that  came  up  from  her  heart,  and  sent 
great  tears  into  her  eyes,  lit  Say's  face,  and  went  away,  and  left 
it  pale  again.  But  she  could  not,  for  the  moment,  speak  a 
word. 

"  Is  it  any  use, — now  ? "  asked  the  plain,  blunt  man,  hum- 
bling himself  so,  from  his  hardness,  with  that  pause,  and  that 
•"  now  ?  " 

She  must  answer,  something. 

"  Why  have  you  said  this — now  ? "  She  parodied,  with  a 
sudden  bitterness  of  pain,  his  question.  There  was  joy,  and  there 
was  pain  in  her,  hearing  his  words.  But  pain  came  uppermost- 
The  joy  had  been  put  by,  so  long !  She  thought  that  she  had 
ceased  to  love  him,  with  that  old,  utter  love,  in  those  long  hard 
years. 

"  Because — now — if  you  will — I  must  have  you  for  my  wife, 
Say!" 

It  was  real,  urgent,  pleading  passion  that  sent  forth  these  words ; 
but  it  sent  them  forth  after  the  manner  of  the  man. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  come — at  his  own  time — to  claim 
her ;  who  had  been  his,  waiting  his  time. 

"  You  are  true  and  generous  ;  be  true  and  generous  in  this  ;  for- 
give me;  and  let  there  be  but  one  right  between  us." 

He  wanted  this,  then !  To  give  her  back  her  money  !  This  was 
why  he  said  it — "  now ! " 

Her  evil  angel  stood  by,  and  whispered  it. 

"  I  haven't  done  it  to  buy  your  love,  Gershom  !  "  she  cried,  in  a 
superb  flash.  Pride  tingled  all  over  her,  from  her  head  to  her  feet, 
and  sparkled  from  her,  like  a  thing  overcharged  with  electricity. 
Whatever  other  force  had  been  there,  it  was  driven  out. 

"  And  my  love  is  not  a  thing  to  be  bought,"  the  man  said,  as 
superbly.  "  I  have  told  you  honest  truth." 

She  repented  of  her  bitterness  ;  her  pain  smote  back,  with  double 
force,  upon  herself,  alone. 

He  had  called  her  true,  and  generous,  at  last.  Had  she  not  lived, 
and  looked,  for  this  ?  " 

But.  love?     She  would  be  true  and    generous,  at  least.     She 


Thrums  Again.  325 

thought  that  hour  of  love  gone  by.  It  had  been  too  long.  Hearts 
miss  each  other,  so ;  and  lives  runs  separate.  The  orbits  intersect ; 
but  when  the  second  sphere  springs,  radiant,  to  the  summer-point 
of  meeting,  the  other  has  rolled  on,  alone,  into  a  winter  chill. 

"  I  have  told  you  that  Hove  you.  As  a  man  should  love  the  woman 
he  asks  to  be  his  wife.  I  never  said  the  word  to  a  woman  before. 
Have  you  no  love  to  give  me  ?  I  do  not  believe  it ! " 

In  strange,  upright,  downright  fashion,  this  wooer  sued  ;  making 
his  virgin  speech  of  love. 

It  helped  her  to  be  outright,  too,  as  women  seldom  have  the 
nerve-courage  to  be,  answering  such  words  of  men. 

"  You  shall  have  the  truth  of  me,  Gershom,  as  if  we  two  stood  in 
heaven.  I  cannot  help  what  you  are  to  me  ;  what  you  have  always 
been.  God  has  put  it  into  my  life.  Neither  can  you  help  it.  It 
lies  between  us  and  must  be.  But — I  will  not  be  your  wife."  She 
said  it  slow  and  low  ;  the  words  came  hard,  but  they  came  clearly. 
"  My  husband  must  not  have  even  the  memory  of  a  contempt  for 
me.  He  must  not  have  been  persuaded  or  convinced  into  loving 
me.  Above  all,  he  must  never  have  distrusted  me.  Gershom,  you 
have  distrusted  me — my  very  nature.  You  have  despised  and  dis- 
believed me.  If  you  had  any  love  for  me,  you  fought  against  it  and 
left  me  to  fight  against  mine  as  I  might.  I  have  made  something  of 
it  so  that  I  do  not  understand  myself;  a  dull,  half-murdered  thing 
that  will  not  die ;  but  that  cannot  be,  I  think,  ever  again,  the  old, 
bright,  living  love.  What  lies  between  us  must  be  ;  we  will  be  at 
peace,  we  will  be  friends  with  each  other,  but  we  will  not 
marry." 

"  A  blessed  peace  you  give  me  !  Say,  you  throw  me  back  into 
my  distrust  of  earth  and  heaven ! " 

"  If  that  be  possible,  you  can  hardly  ever  have  come  out  of  it." 

"  You  taunt  me,  Say!  " 

The  pure,  grieved  spirit  looked  forth  from  her  eyes. 

"  God  knows  I  do  no  such  thing.  Did  I  ever  taunt  you  ?  Should 
I  be  likely  to  do  so  now  ?  Oh,  Gershom  !  I  said  my  husband  must 
have  faith  in  me ;  but  more  than  all,  in  a  higher  faith  he  must  be 
strong  for  me.  He  must  stand  nearer  to  God  than  I !  It 
was  this  I  meant ;  it  was  this  I  doubted.  I  could  not  taunt.  I  did 
not." 


326  The  Gayworthys. 

He  felt  that,  and  his  look  softened  ;  his  candor  did  her  instant 
justice. 

"  You  say  true.  You  never  did.  It  is  I  that  have  taunted.  But 
you  punish,  Say !  You  show  me  what  you  are,  and  you  tell  me  it 
is  too  late." 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  too  late.  God  will  make  whatever  He 
means  of  it.  It  is  between  us,  Gershom,  as  I  said.  We  are  not 
like  other  people.  But — I  do  not  think — we  can  be  ever — husband 
and  wife." 

She  said  it  slow  and  low,  as  before ;  as  if  thinking  it  out.  It  was 
worse  than  retaliation  ;  it  was  worse  than  a  meant  punishment.  It 
was  the  inevitable  result  of  things ;  the  attitude  into  which  human 
relations,  that  will  not  stand  still  and  wait,  that  can  never  twice  in 
the  same  lifetimes  be  precisely  the  same,  had  come,  by  long  bear- 
ing and  pressure,  and  slow,  imperceptible  shiftings,  to  take  between 
these  two. 

He  saw ;  he  acknowledged  ;  but  he  chafed,  for  the  moment,  as 
men  will. 

"  It  must  be  all,  or  nothing,  with  us,"  he  said,  with  an  angry 
bitterness. 

"  I  cannot  make  it  all.  It  must  be  nothing,  I  suppose,  if  you 
will  have  it  so, — for  a  while.  Afterwards,  it  will  be  what  God 
pleases." 

It  was  not  perversity ;  it  was  not  wilful  obduracy ;  it  was  sad 
acquiescence  ;  it  was  a  resigning  herself  to  more  long  waiting.  It 
was  what  she  could  not  help. 

Gershom  Vorse  turned  from  her,  and  went  and  took  his  hat. 
Then  he  stood  still,  a  moment ;  and  then  came  back,  and  held  his 
hand  out. 

"  I  won't  pretend  not  to  understand — or  believe  you.  I  do, — both. 
I  see  you  cannot  help  it.  I  am  not  ill-used  ;  it  has  been  my  fault. — 
Good-by.  I  shan't  see  you  again.  I'm  going  away — on  business 
for  the  ship  ;  and  next  week,  I  sail — for  a  two  years'  voyage." 

The  next  moment,  the  door  closed  on  this  rejected  man,  and  his 
tardy,  grand  generosity. 

Something, — courage,  certainty,  mistake,  estrangement, — I  know 
not  what, — fell  away,  suddenly,  out  of  Say's  heart,  and  left  a  great 
asking,  and  emptiness,  and  misery  there. 


The  Sunny  Corner.  327 

It  is  a  story  of  threads  and  thrums ;  I  told  you  so,  before. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  money.  He  remembered  it 
afterward. 

"  I  will  never  touch  a  cent  of  hers.  She  may  put  it  where  she 
likes.  It  may  wait.  Mother,  we  two  must  make  our  wills." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  SUNNY   CORNER. 

THE  business  was  done.  Say  had  her  way,  apparently;  but 
they  had  all  thought,  afterward,  to  have  theirs  ;  to  prevent  her  ever 
feeling  the  difference.  She  was  to  go  back  to  Hilbury ;  she  was 
to  live  with  Aunt  Rebecca ;  she  belonged  there  ;  it  was  her  natural 
home. 

But  they  found,  when  it  came  to  this,  that  her  way  lay  further. 
That  it  was  still  marked  definitely  out. 

"  I  was  not  made  to  be  an  idle  thing  in  the  world.  You  have 
your  work,  Aunt  Becsie,  and  uses  for  your  money.  Aunt  Joanna 
has  hers.  I  am  going  to  have  mine :  my  work,  and  my  money  ; 
nobody's  else  earning  or  bequeathing.  You  might  marry,  or  go 
away, — or  die  ;  and  then — it  would  be  neither  your  home  nor  mine. 
I  am  going  to  have  a  place  of  my  own  ;  I  can't  be  a  nothing ; 
when  I  die,  I  mean  to  leave  some  sort  of  a  little  hole  in  the 
world." 

Her  playfulness  was  a  cover  for  an  evident  determination ;  it 
overlaid  a  good  deal  else,  also ;  the  aching  and  the  asking,  and  the 
misery,  that  were  in  her  at  sharp  times. 

She  had  already  acted  as  well  as  determined.  She  had  seen  her 
old  friend  Mrs.  Gorham,  and  set  her  secretly  at  work.  There  was 
a  post  ready  for  her  as  teacher  in  a  large  young  ladies'  school.  By 
and  by  she  should  have  a  school  of  her  own.  A  career  of  womanly 
independence  and  usefulness  was  before  her,  and  her  face  was 
steadfastly  set  along  its  line. 

She  had  been,  also,  to  see  Mrs.  Hopeley  and  Grace,  There  was 
a  third-story  room,  over  Grace's,  where  she  could  make  just  such 
another  little  nest  for  herself. 

She  had  gone  there  knowing  there  would  be,  just  then,  no  op- 


328  The  Gayworthys. 

posite  eyes  to  see.  Captain  Vorse  was  away  upon  his  business  for 
the  ship ;  there  was  this  two  years'  voyage  to  come  ;  she  should  be 
safe  there,  as  she  had  planned,  for  that  time,  at  least ;  and  the 
something  that  was  between  her  and  Gershom  Vorse,  while  it 
made  her  shy  of  risk  of  actual  encounter,  now,  yet  gave  a  secret 
contradictory  charm  to  this  actual  neighborhood  of  absence, — this 
nearness  to  the  home  that  had  been  his.  Two  years  would  be  a 
long  time  ;  they  would  end  in  a  summer  vacation  ;  she  should  see 
meanwhile,  how  it  would  be.  Besides,  she  could  not  give  up  her 
dream, — and  Grace, — and  the  brown  bread. 

And  besides,  again,  before  all  this  was  fully  fixed,  and  the  two 
years  began,  other  strange  things  had  happened. 

Seventeen  years  ago,  when  our  story  opened,  there  had  been  a 
single  night  wherein  we  saw  sown  the  seeds  of  events — mostly  in 
quiet  life-times — yet  that  branched  forth  in  their  results,  grasping 
the  half  those  lives ;  the  intenser  half,  and  that  wherein  they  took 
direction.  Now,  at  this  point,  in  these  few,  short  weeks,  came  a 
crisis  and  conjunction  again ;  the  culmination  of  much.  God 
rounds  his  poems  of  intermingled  human  histories  more  artistically, 
often,  then  we  stop  to  trace. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  the  day  wherein  took  place 
the  interview  and  parting  narrated  in  the  last  chapter,  Say  came 
round  in  the  rain,  when  church  was  over,  to  Mrs.  Hopeley's.  It 
was  quiet  there ;  and  Grace  was  helpful  with  her  unconscious, 
tender  patience ;  and  she  could  not  go  back,  for  all  those  hours,  to 
the  hotel  parlor.  She  did  not  even  want  Aunt  Rebecca ;  she 
slipped  away  from  her  with  a  sudden  word  of  excuse ;  she  wanted 
Grace,  and  the  bread  of  homely,  friendly  strengthening. 

She  came  in  the  rain  ;  and  she  entered  by  the  brick  alley  that 
tunnelled  the  block  half  a  dozen  doors  below  in  the  side  streetf 
and  led  round  by  a  wider  one  into  which  it  branched,  to  the 
widow's  kitchen  door. 

"  My  feet  are  damp ;  and  I  came  round  here,  to  dry  them  at  your 
fire.  Is  Grace  at  home  ?  " 

"  She's  been  home  and  up-stairs ;  but  she's  gone  out  again. 
Sunday's  her  missionary  day,  you  know ;  she's  gone  down  to 
Craig's  alley,  to  see  Terny  Shane.  She  won't  be  long;  sit  right 
up,  and  put  your  feet  at  the  oven  door,"  and  widow  Hopeley  placed 


The  Sunny  Corner.  329 

a  white-scoured  cricket  against  the  faultless  black  of  her  tidy  little 
stove. 

"  How  nice  you  are  here !     It  does  look  so  like  Sunday  rest ! " 

"  It  is  pretty  comfortable,"  said  the  widow,  with  a  distinct  and 
rather  dubious  sigh,  that  prolonged  and  repeated  itself,  as  her  eyes 
ran  complacently  round  the  shining  order  of  the  little  room. 

"  You  sigh  as  if  it  were  almost  something  doleful,"  said  Say. 

"Yes — well — I'm  apt  to  be  reminded  sometimes  of  the  lone- 
someness  ;  sitting  here  seven  years  of  Sundays  without  Luke ;  and 
— furthermore — I  suppose — partly — of  the  Sunday  clutter  he  used 
to  get  up.  It's  hard  to  tell,  after  all,  what  our  sighs  are  made  of, 
always ;  or  our  tears,  or  our  prayers,  for  that  matter." 

"  There  never  was  his  likeness  for  a  muss  ;  especially  of  a  Sun- 
day, when  there  was  such  a  good  chance  to  begin  one.  He  was  a 
stiddy  man,  Luke  was,  and  went  to  church  pretty  regular;  and 
always  of  a  morning.  But,  between  times,  and  of  afternoons,  stch 
works  of  necessity  as  he'd  get  up !  Just  you  look  there,  behind 
the  door.  There's  one  string  of  "em." 

Say  glanced,  somewhat  puzzled  as  to  what  she  was  to  behold ; 
and  saw  a  long  record  of  something,  written  up  in  blue  chalk,  upon 
the  yellow-washed  wall.  From  as  high  as  a  common  arm  could 
reach,  down  to  the  wainscot. 

ist  Sunday  after  Trinity.     Bottles. 
2d       do.         do.       do.         Cats. 
3d      do.        do.      do.        Clock. 

And  so  on,  twenty-seven  lines  of  it. 

"  Eight  years  ago,  last  Trinity,  I  began,  and  marked  it  up.  For 
him  to  see.  First  time,  it  was  bottles.  Washing  'em  out  to  sell ; 
lots  of  'em ;  all  we'd  gathered,  of  all  sorts — and  you'd  have  thought 
we'd  made  it  a  business — since  we'd  lived  here.  Next  time  it  was 
catching  cats.  I  couldn't  so  much  blame  him  for  that.  They  did 
yowl  round  the  alleys,  tremengious,  especially  Sundays.  So  he 
contrived  a  trap ;  and  he  was  all  that  day,  and  half  the  night,  a 
watching  of  it.  and  a  whippin'  'em.  Then  it  was  the  old  wooden 
clock,  that  he  took  all  the  insides  out  of.  I  knew  he'd  never  get 
'em  back  again,  conformable  ;  but  he  said  he  was  going  to  make 
it  keep  time.  I  told  him  he'd  better  keep  Sunday,  and  think 
about  eternity ;  but.  howsoever,  it  was  the  end  of  time,  as  far  as 


33°  The  Gayworthys. 

the  clock  was  concerned  ;  for  it  never  moved  hand  or — pendleum, 
of  its  own  accord  again.  And,  so  it  went  on.  There  was  twenty- 
seven  Sundays  after  Trinity  that  year;  and  there  they  all  are:  and 
I've  never  washed  'em  out ;  old  sinner  as  I  am,  to  keep  my  poor 
man's  shortcomings,  that  the  Lord  has  washed  out  long  ago, 
chalked  up  against  him  !  But,  howbeit,  it's  somehow  a  thing  to 
remember  him  by,  as  nothing  else  would  be,  after  all !  And,  as 
you  say,  the  kitchen  do  look  tidy ! " 

And  Widow  Hopeley  ended  with  another  indeterminate  sigh,  in 
which  relief  and  tender  recollection  strove,  and  relief  had,  finally, 
rather  the  better  of  it. 

It  was  not  precisely  what  she  had  come  looking  for ;  but  it 
turned,  as  straws  do  for  us,  the  current  of  Say's  thought.  We  do 
not  always  get  what  we  reach  out  for  ;  but  something  falls  to  us 
that  works  for  our  want  as  well.  A  whole,  quiet  story  of  homely, 
humble  love,  and  petty  trial,  and  great  loss,  was  in  Widow 
Hopeley's  whimsical  recital. 

One  shadow — of  her  own — did  not  quite  overcast  the  whole 
world  as  it  had  done.  The  world  that  was  full  of  life,  and  en- 
deavor, and  crosses,  and  simple  joys, — with  God  over  all,  and  in  all. 

The  smile  that  had  come  with  the  sense  of  drollness  and  oddity, 
stayed  with  a  gleam  of  better  things.  Widow  Hopeley  was  a 
shrewd  woman,  and  perhaps  she  meant  it,  in  a  secondary  way. 
Say  was  "  brightened  up  "  a  little,  by  a  touch  that  never  reached 
the  real  dull  spot  upon  her  heart  at  all.  This  is  the  way,  and  these 
are  the  tools,  with  which  life  handles  us. 

She  went  up  to  Grace's  room  with  a  feeling  of  a  cheer, — a 
pleasantness,  that  were  somewhere.  The  fine  inner  consciousness, 
that,  when  we  read  it,  becomes  a  second  sight,  was  stirred  as  sen- 
sitive nerves  are  stirred,  when  over  the  harsh  breath  of  the  east 
comes  the  first,  faint  sweep  of  a  wind  from  the  south, — from  a 
summer  somewhere  ;  and  coming. 

A  gift  lay  waiting  for  her.  The  gift  of  a  glad  and  beautiful 
instrumentality. 

She  was  coming  straight  to  where  it  lay,  and  she  knew  it  not ; 
but  the  presentment  of  its  delight  was  with  her.  She  thought,  if 
she  thoXight  at  all,  that  it  was  all  her  bit  of  talk  with  Mistress 
Hopeley,  and  the  atmosphere  of  her  brightness  and  tidiness,  and 


The  Sunny  Corner.  331 

the  daintier  brightness  she  should  find  with  Grace.  The  angels 
that  led  her,  and  knew  what  they  had  put  for  her  to  stumble  on, 
knew  better. 

She  had  had  a  hard  task  laid  on  her ;  a  thing  to  search  for,  that 
was  pain  and  shame  to  find ;  she  had  accepted  it  and  wrought  it 
out,  of  steadfast  intent  and  purpose ;  as  if  in  a  precise  amends  for 
this,  a  thing  she  looked  not  for,  which  was  a  joy,  and  a  clearing 
off  of  shame,  was  waiting  to  be  given  her,  to-day. 

Up  in  Grace's  chamber,  the  afternoon  sun,  that  had  dropped 
below  the  fringe  of  summer  rain-clouds,  and  burnished  for  himself 
a  golden  gallery  in  the  west,  poured  through  aslant ;  and  the  plants 
were  green  in  the  windows ;  and  the  Sunday  rest  was  upon  all, 
sweeter,  even,  than  in  Mistress  Hopeley's  kitchen  that  told  of  toil 
completed.  There  was  no  breath  of  toil  left  here.  The  light  work 
of  the  week  was  laid  away.  On  the  little  table  in  the  dais-window, 
lay  a  book  with  open  leaves,  as  Grace  had  left  it  when  the 
church-bells  rang.  Beside  it,  a  light  basket  held  some  golden 
bananas.  There  was  a  plate  of  Indian  china  also,  and  a  fruit- 
knife. 

It  was  plain  Grace  Lowder's  opposite  neighbor  was  at  home. 
That  she  looked  for  Say,  also,  for  whom  the  little  refection  had 
been  set  out 

Grace  herself,  had  not  yet  come.  But  her  fan  and  her  prayer- 
book  lay  upon  her  bed ;  and  a  thin  shawl,  that  she  had  changed  for 
some  other  garment,  was  thrown  there  also. 

Say  walked  to  the  dais-window,  and  glanced  out  between  the 
green.  Nothing  told  her  even  yet,  but  this  creeping  sense  of  joy 
and  pleasantness,  the  thing  she  was  to  have  to  do  to-night. 

Over  the  way  a  figure  sat  behind  the  out  swung  blinds.  An- 
other friend  watching  also  as  she  did  when  Grace  should  come. 
Gershom's  friend,  too,  in  Gershom's  sometimes  home.  She  looked 
furtively,  and  her  heart  warmed  to  the  noble  sailor,  of  denied,  sad 
life,  who  was  also  Gershom's  friend.  And  nothing  whispered 
even  yet,  of  what  was  so  near, — waiting  her  chance  turn  and 
movement. 

Is  anything  chance  ?  Is  it  not  all  preventing  and  providing, — a 
gift  and  a  showing,  direct  ? 

Edward  Blackmere  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  turned  full 


332  The  Gayworthys. 

round,  leaning  his  elbow  square  upon  the  sill,  with  his  face  forth 
upon  the  street.  Say  drew  back.  She  turned  toward  the  bed. 
She  took  up,  mechanically,  the  little  worn  old  prayerbook,  that,  by 
some  chance  again,  she  had  never  handled  before.  Grace  had 
another  ;  she  did  not  always  carry  this  to  church  ;  she  had  never 
brought  it  to  the  Sunday  School.  It  lay  commonly  with  a  Bible 
and  a  hymnbook,  on  a  little  bracket-shelf  of  Grace's  own  contriv- 
ance, over  her  bed. 

The  book  opened,  of  itself,  in  the  middle,  where  the  Order  of  Holy 
Matrimony  was  set  forth ;  where,  also,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
service,  lay  folded  over,  and  fastened  to  the  leaf,  a  small,  written 
paper. 

Marriage  lines.  She  saw  the  names  that  she  had  never  seen 
before.  "  Hugh  Lowder  and  Grace  Blackmere."  A  date  of  more 
than  thirty  years  ago,  and  the  name  of  a  little  English  seaport 
town. 

She  turned  the  book  to  the  fly-leaf,  with  a  strange  thrill  of  expec- 
tation. 

There  was  the  name  repeated, — "  Grace  Blackmere," — and  a 
date  still  older. 

But  up  and  down  the  cover,  in  a  stiff,  boy's,  learning  hand,  was 
another  name.  "  Edward."  "  Edward."  Twice  repeated.  And 
then,  in  full,  "  Edward  Blackmere." 

Again  she  had  brought  to  light  a  secret,  hidden  thing.  Faith- 
ful in  that  which  was  her  own,  this  which  was  another's  came 
committed  to  her ;  to  her  who  held  in  her  knowledge  now  the  two 
ends  of  this  broken  thread. 

It  was  clear  and  sure  to  her.  She  knew  there  had  been  some 
strange,  sad  story  about  this  man's  sister.  That  he  had  believed 
a  sore,  ill  thing  of  her.  That  he  had  lost  her  for  long  years.  That 
Grace  Lowder's  mother  had  been  an  Englishwoman,  as  was  also 
Widow  Hopeley.  And  now, — well,  it  was  God's  time  that  had 
come,  as  had  come  also  in  that  other  finding.  And  this,  too,  was 
given  her  to  do. 

After  that  moment's  thrill  and  wonder,  she  took  the  book  in  her 
band  and  went  straight  down-stairs,  out  at  the  door  where  she  saw 
Grace,  ten  steps  off,  coming.  She  did  not  stop  to  speak,  or  to  ex- 
plain. She  let  her  act  prepare  her  friend,  and  explain  itself  as  it 


The  Sunny  Corner.  333 

might.  She  went  right  over  the  street,  and  up  at  that  opposite 
door,  full  under  Blackmere's  sight  and  Grace's. 

Grace  Lowder  looked  after  her,  amazed.  Then  a  sudden  fore- 
feeling  of  something  coming,  swept  over  her  also,  and  took  her 
whole  heart  in  a  vague  storm.  She  went  in,  and  up-stairs  ;  trem- 
bling as  she  went ;  and  stopped  short  when  she  reached  the  middle 
of  her  own  room,  and  leaned  there  on  her  crutch,  and  waited. 

Say  rang  old  Grossman's  bell.  Blackmere  was  on  the  stairs, 
already,  and  came  and  opened  to  her.  She  held  her  hand  out  to 
him, — the  hand  that  had  come  "  wiih  a  gift  in  it,"  to  his  own  feel- 
ing, years  ago, — and  her  look,  lifted  to  his  face,  shone  brighter, 
tenderer,  than  she  knew.  His  look  upon  her,  was  what  she  had 
seen  in  that  old,  first  meeting.  Gentle  and  kindly, — a  rock  warmed 
and  lighted  m  the  sunshine.  She  knew,  now,  what  more  she  had 
seen  in  it  then.  What  its  blind  reminder  had  been. 

"  I  must  come  in.     I  have  come  to  tell  you  something." 

He  was  surprised,  with  such  a  surprise  as  the  old  patriarch  felt 
when  the  angel  came  to  his  tent. 

She  could  not  say  it  here,  in  such  a  hurry.  She  let  him  lead 
her  up  into  that  room  above.  A  strange  place  for  her  to  be  in, — 
a  strange  thing  for  her  to  do.  But  she  never  thought  of  the 
strangeness. 

She  stood  there  among  Gershom's  furnishings ;  in  that  chamber 
that  was  more  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship,  with  its  lamp  swinging  from 
the  ceiling,  and  its  berth-like  bed  set  in  against  the  wall.  She 
stood  beside  the  table  where  his  maps  and  papers  lay.  Blackmere 
drew  for  her  the  arm-chair  that  she  knew  was  his  ;  but  she  did  not 
seat  herself  or  pause. 

"  It  is  strange  that  it  should  have  come  to  me  But  I  am  glac 
and  thankful  that  it  was  given  to  me.  I  have  found  this. 

She  reached  him  out  the  little  book. 

How  things  outlast  our  lives ! 

That  little,  worn  old  book  !  His  childhood  came  back  with  it. 
The  smell  of  the  old  Devonshire  woods, — the  farmhouse  home  in 
the  river-valley;  the  wild  breath  and  voice  of  the  sea,  that  came  up 
and  wooed  him,  at  last, — when  bitterness  and  anger  drove  him, 
also, — away.  The  love  of  his  dead  mother ;  the  "  real  mother," 
who  had  "gone  to  heaven  as  the  real  ones  do  ; "  the  sister —  ! 


334  The  Gayworthys. 

For  a  moment  the  man's  body  was  there,  standing  before  Say , 
Iiis  soul  was  away  off,  over  the  ocean, — away  back  into  long-gone 
years. 

He  knew  it  before  he  opened  it.  The  thought  and  the  breath  of 
the  old  time  came  with  it ;  he  laid  back  the  cover  slowly,  as  one 
r..ight  fold  back  the  door  of  a  tomb. 

His  eye  fell  on  the  written  names.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair  that 
VMS  beside  him  there,  never  thinking  of  Say,  standing,  looking  on  ; 
he  laid  the  book  upon  the  table  and  his  head  drooped  over  it ;  tears, 
\vrung  up  through  the  strong  life  of  the  man,  along  this  well-shaft 
that  had  sounded  down,  suddenly,  to  the  sweet  springs  of  his  boy- 
hood, ran  from  his  eyes  upon  it. 

Say  turned  away.     A  strong  man's  tears  are  sacred. 

Then  the  memory  of  the  shame,  and  the  anger,  and  the  bitter- 
ness came  back.  He  came  back,  through  all  the  years  again,  to 
this  present  moment  of  his  life. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?     What  good  does  it  do  me  now  ?  " 

"  I  saw  this  first,"  said  Say,  gently,  coming  back,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  the  book  beside  his,  and  turning,  as  his  hand  yielded,  to 
that  folded  paper  in  the  middle,  that  opened,  as  the  leaves  parted, 
and  showed  its  old  brown  writing. 

"  I  found  it  there.  In  Grace  Lowder's  room.  She  is  my 
friend." 

Then  she  moved  away  again,  a  little,  while  he  looked  at  it. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  means  that  you  have  brought  me  ?  " 
He  spoke,  after  a  hushed  pause. 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"  I  think  you  can't.  It  means  the  clearing  up  of  a  cloud,  that 
came  with  a  whirlwind  in  it,  and  drove  me  out  upon  the  world,  to 
bz  what  I  have  been  since.  It  means  that  my  sister  Grace — whom 
I  did  love,  though  I  cursed  her, — was  at  least  an  honest  woman, 
as  women's  honesty  is  talked  of  in  the  world.  It  means  that  God 
has  given  me  something  of  my  own  to  care  for,  at  last.  God?  It 
means  that  He,  whom  I  said  was  nowhere  in  the  earth,  has  been 
in  all  my  life,  and  that  I  know  it  now ! " 

No  way  of  writing  it  can  show  with  what  a  burst  of  untrained, 
urgent  eloquence,  that  had  in  it  a  great  astonishment  of  joy. — a 
passion  of  regret, — a  rush  of  grateful  tenderness,  and  a  grand  con- 


The  Sunny  Corner.  335 

fession  of  heart-faith, — Edward  Blackmere  spoke  these  words,  or 
something  like  them,  to  Sarah  Gair. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  fresh  thought  smote  him. 

"  I  never  told  her  my  name  ;  because  there  was  a  shame  upon  it. 
It  is  her  shame,  now  ;  and  I  must  tell  her !  I  believed  the  worst — 
God  forgive  me — of  her  mother.  What  if  she  should  believe  the 
worst  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  she  will  not,  Mr.  Blackmere.  The  worst  is  never 
true  of  anybody ! " 

She  spoke  as  one  who  knew.  She  who  came  always  with  a  gift 
in  her  hand  for  him,  held  it  out, — this  grand,  beautiful  human 
faith, — and  he  grasped  it. 

The  human  faith  came,  too, — the  crowning  of  the  heavenly.  He 
was  ready, — the  hard,  doubting  man, — at  last,  to  believe,  and  to  be 
believed  in. 

"  Where  is  my  little  girl  ?  " 

Oh,  how  tenderly  the  rough  man  said  it  1  How,  with  a  voice  cf 
tears,  he  claimed  and  took  this  gift  of  God  J 

Say  led  him  over,  then,  and  sent  him  in. 

There  were  three  days  before  the  new  ship  sailed.  In  those 
three  days,  what  a  carrying  over  of  lovely  things,  across  the  way, 
into  Grace  Lowder's  little  room  !  Things  that  nobody,  not  even 
Gershom  Vorse,  had  known  of.  Things  that,  for  years,  had  been 
gathering  in  that  little  back  upper  chamber,  in  locked  sea-chests, 
in  old  Grossman's  house.  Waiting  for  his  little  girl,  sometime. 
When  he  should  dare  to  give  them  to  her, — if  ever  he  should.  Ail 
sorts  of  women's  beautiful  appointments,  bought  out  of  his  hard 
earnings  in  all  sorts  of  strange,  far  places  where  he  had  been,  since 
he  had  first  found  that  there  was  this  one  little  woman  in  the 
world  that  he  would  like  to  have  a  right  to  think  of  and  make  glad  ! 
Now  and  then,  something  had  gone  to  her ;  but  he  had  kept  buy- 
ing, and  bringing  home,  and  hiding  away,  with  a  strange  instinct, 
things  that  he  never  really  thought  to  put  into  her  hands  at  all.  A 
little  delusion  of  what  might  be,  had  embodied  itself  so,  and  so  had 
seemed  half  real.  The  little  love  that  had  crept  into  his  hard  life 
had  been  such  an  intensity  ! 

On  Thursday  morning  the  ship  sailed  away. 


336  The  Gayworthys. 

In  two  years  he  would  come  back  again.  Then  they  would  have 
their  little  home  together.  Meantime,  white,  folded  messengers 
would  go  out  after  him  across  the  water,  and  find  him  in  far  ports. 
And  letters,  spicy  from  hot  climes,  ship-flavored  from  long  sailing, 
should  come  back  to  her.  He  had  never  had  anybody  to  write  to, 
or  get  letters  from,  before. 

All  had  resolved  itself,  in  those  three  days.  Mrs.  Hopeley 
— (I  have  not  been  able  to  pause  to  tell  you  of  her  ecstasy  at 
this  solution  of  what  "had  been,  verily,  her  main  conunderment  " 
so  long ;  at  the  opposite  gentleman  "  coming  out,  after  all,  as 
handsome  as  could  any  ways  be  expected,"  with  a  good  plain 
English  name  of  his  own  whereby  she  was  to  have  henceforth 
"  the  good  of  him,"  as  if  he  had  been  a  tin  dipper  !) — Mrs.  Hopeley 
was  to  go  then,  to  one  of  those  likely  sons  of  hers,  that  had  been, 
long  ago,  so  "  forrard  in  their  means,"  and  had  gone  "  forrard  " 
ever  since ;  and  Edward  Blackmere  was  to  hire  her  house  and 
come  over  to  the  sunny  corner ;  to  the  corner  of  his  life  where  the 
tardy  sun  had  at  last  crept  round. 

The  Captain  ?  There  was  always  to  be  a  place  there  for  the 
Captain  when  he  chose  to  come. 

It  was  Widow  Hopeley's  hour  of  triumph.  Old  Grossman's 
nose  was  decidedly  out  of  joint. 

Say  caused  it  to  be  kept  very  quiet  that,  for  these  two  years, 
first,  it  was  to  be  her  home.  They  would  end,  as  she  had  all 
along  said  to  herself,  in  the  sumn.^r  vacation.  There  was  Mrs. 
Gorham,  who  had  asked  that  she  should  come  to  her  whenever 
she  could  and  liked ;  there  was  Hilbury,  where  she  should  always 
go  for  those  joy-days  of  the  year.  She  should  be  in  no  one's 
way. 

But  her  path  tangled  itself  curiously  with  his.  She  felt,  some- 
how, that  they  could  never  part,  and  go  quite  separate  ways. 
This  goes  far  to  satisfy  a  woman  ;  and  Say  was  not  so  sorely  sorry 
as  she  had  been. 

She  thought,  even  yet,  that  the  old,  utter  love  was  changed  ;  that 
she  could  not  be  his  wife  ;  yet  she  looked,  somehow,  with  a  vague 
expectation  for  these  two  years  to  end. 

Whatever  they  were  to  be,  each  to  the  other,  in  their  lives,  they 
should  be ;  she  believed  in  this,  and  waited. 


"  Elected  !  "  337 

Grace  was  content  and  happy ;  she  had  two  years  to  think  it 
over  in,  to  get  used  to  it,  and  to  be  ready.  She  could  not  bear  it 
all  at  once,  or  all  the  time ! 


CHAPTER  XLII. 
" ELECTED ! " 

Do  the  two  years  dishearten  you  ?  Are  they  wearisome  before- 
hind  ?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  skip  them  ?  I  may  have 
to  skip  them  in  great  part,  too.  Yet,  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  the 
misfortune  of  readers  that  they  may  skip  ;  of  books  that  they  must ; 
that  we  will  not  accept  an  uneventful  interval ;  that  no  life  can  be 
got,  wholly,  within  two  covers.  Yet  He  who  reads  patiently  the 
record  that  He  lets  us  write,  does  not  grow  weary,  nor  skip ;  not 
even  our  times  of  sin.  And  ourselves, — out  of  our  books, — we 
have  to  wait.  We  show  plainly  enough  what  we  should  do  were 
the  whole  volume  of  life  in  our  hands  at  once.  But  the  dull 
places  and  the  long  places,  the  places  where  things  won't  happen, 
— ah,  these  are  the  very  ones  God  means  us  most  carefully  to 
read  ! 

There  was  much  in  these  two  years  that  might  not  be  quite 
wearisome  were  we  to  settle  down  to  it.  Sarah  Gair  herself,  having 
to  settle  down  to  it,  found  this.  There  were  busy,  happy  days 
of  contact  with  young,  fresh  life  that  she  could  help ;  there  were 
trial  days  to  be  fought  bravely  through  ;  the  old  word  "  elected," 
was  in  her  heart  when  things  were  hardest  ;  there  were  stanch 
friends, — friends  of  herself,  not  of  her  fortunes, — who  made 
bright  hours  for  her  of  absolute  rest ;  there  were  summer  days  at 
Hilbury  that  gave  her  the  elixir  of  her  youth,  and  made  her 
strong. 

Aunt  Prue  was  kind ;  there  was  no  place  for  mean,  unreasonable 
resentment  in  her  honest  soul,  that  recognized  truth  always, — that 
would  have  nothing  else,  in  itself  or  in  another.  She  had  come  to 
respect  Say ;  and  she  showed  it.  There  was  more  in  her  simple 
"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  child,"  than  in  other  people's  most  voluble 


338  The  Gayworthys. 

welcomes.  And  more  than  all,  which  proved  how  wholly  she  took 
her  into  her  heart  at  last,  she  read  to  her  bits  of  Gershom's  letters, 
and  told  her  all  the  news  of  him  and  of  his  ship.  Not  a  hint  of 
her  knowledge  of  what  had  been,  and  been  done  with,  between  the 
two.  Her  native  greatness  turned  itself,  wide-armed,  toward  this 
nature  that  she  had  found  to  be  also  great. 

Say  grew  quietly,  trustfully,  hopefully  content.  Her  love  for 
Gershom  had  been  so  much  a  thing  born  with  and  grown  up  with 
her,  that  it  could  not  partake  of  the  fear  and  the  uneasiness  that 
attach  themselves  to  love  grown  out  of  chance  meetings ;  where  to 
part  once  is  to  be  parted  from  utterly.  She  had  "  grown  up  with 
him  in  her  heart,"  Cousin  Wealthy  had  truly  said.  Their  lives 
centered  themselves  alike ;  she  never  dreamed  of  his  finding  for 
himself  a  new  center ;  she  knew  too  profoundly  that  they  not  only 
could  never  "  be  quite  like  other  people  to  each  other,"  but  that 
none  other  could  fill  the  place  of  either. 

I  said  she  was  hopeful.  Hopeful  of  all  good  to  come,  at  last, 
to  Gershom  ;  of  a  clear  day  that  should  burn  away  every  old  mist 
out  of  his  soul.  She  was  content ;  prevailingly  content ;  yet  there 
were  hours  of  self-doubt  and  questioning  pain,  when  she  misgave 
whether  or  not  she  had  done  all  that  lay  for  her  to  do  in  righting 
the  old  wrong ;  the  words  of  Gershom,  so  dear  to  her  recollection 
in  their  vindication  of  her  truth, — "  there  is  more  than  money- 
justice  to  be  done," — her  heart  took  up  in  his  behalf,  also.  The 
shadow  of  distrust  and  unbelief  upon  him,  which  had  come  so 
largely  from  that  wrong  which  lay  at  her  dead  mother's  door, — 
might  it  not,  of  right,  have  been  her  work  to  win  away  ?  Had  she 
looked,  with  a  strong  enough  faith,  on  her  own  part,  through  that 
which  overlay  his  real  nature,  holding  fast  to  that  image  of  him. 
which  she  knew  to  be  the  true  apprehension  of  his  inward  self ;  the 
self  that  should  triumph  ;  the  glory  in  him  that  should  come  to  be 
revealed  ? 

He  was  very  generous ;  he  made  kindly  mention  of  her  in  the 
words  that  he  sent  home  ;  his  calm  thoughts  were  just  thoughts  ; 
she  held  him  daily  in  honor,  more  and  more. 

She  clung  more  and  more,  in  her  heart,  and  in  little  delicate 
ways  of  showing,  to  his  mother,— the  stern-judging  woman,  that 
she  had  been  so  afraid  of,  as  a  child. 


"  Elected  !  "  339 

When  Gershom  came,  he  would  find  her  grown  very  close  there, 
in  his  mother's  love. 

Grace  Lowder's  days  dropped  by,  like  the  sweet,  quick  notes  of 
a  song.  It  would  not  be  long ;  not  anything  was  long,  between 
two  hearts  that  felt  each  other,  and  were  sure  ;  a  matter  of  leagues 
and  degrees  is  nothing  to  the  electric  wire.  There  was  a  great, 
strong  love  for  her  in  the  world ;  the  world  was  one  full  joy ; 
though  it  all  lay  between  them,  it  was  one  great,  throbbing  pres- 
ence ;  there  was  no  such  thing  as  separation  in  it. 

And  by-and-by,  the  two  years  were  done,  and  came  to  their  end. 
Two  years,  and  five  weeks  over  ;  they  had  sailed  in  early  August, 
and  now  the  September  days  were  come.  But  at  the  last  news,  all 
was  well ;  and  they  were  not  yet  overdue. 

The  time  had  not  quite  come  for  Say's  school  duties  ;  but  she 
had  returned  from  Hilbury,  and  was  getting  settled  in  her  new 
room.  The  sunny  corner  house  was  ready  for  its  coming  tenant ; 
Mrs.  Hopeley's  boxes  were  packed  ;  her  furniture  sent  away  ;  Say's 
little  nest  was  broken  up, — built  over ;  nevertheless,  she  had  had 
her  share  of  pleasure  in  the  building.  Grace  was  like  a  bird,  hop- 
ping from  perch  to  perch  of  her  pretty  cage.  She  had  spent  the 
money  Blackmere  left  her  to  make  this  home  with  ;  spent  it,  turn- 
ing it  into  wonders  of  pleasantness  and  fitness,  as  only  a  woman  of 
delicate  thought  and  heart  can  do ;  and  from  bright  kitchen  to  bit 
attic,  the  whole  place  smiled. 

And  then  there  came  a  week  of  rain. 

Dreary,  cloudy  days,  at  first,  misting  and  glooming;  then  two 
days  of  real  tempest. 

And  they  knew  that  the  ship  was  coming  homeward — coastward. 
Grace  read  the  prayer  at  night  for  persons  at  sea ;  it  came  to  be  in 
her  heart  all  day. 

Say  came  round  in  the  twilight,  every  day,  and  picked  up  the 
little  evening  paper  on  the  doorstep,  that  they  left  there  for  her  to 
bring  in  ;  and  they  looked  to  find  ships  telegraphed. 

How  shall  I  tell  you  what  they  did  find,  one  night,  at  last  ? 

The  weather  was  clear,  again  ;  people  said  the  Line  Storm  was 
over;  early,  this  year;  and  vessels  had  come  in.  For  forty-eight 
hours,  the  bay  had  been  white  with  them. 

There  was  a  long  list  of  shipping  intelligence. 


34°  The  Gayworthys. 

There  was  a  long  column  under  the  head  "  Disasters." 

How  shall  I  tell  you  what  they  found  there  ?  How  five  little 
lines  of  type  quivered  at  them,  like  dusky  lightning,  from  the  page, 
and  blinded  their  eyes,  and  smote  them  to  the  life  ? 

How,  that  night,  Say  stayed  on  with  Grace,  and  their  storm 
came  down  upon  them,  and  grasped  them,  and  hurled  them  upon 
the  rocks  of  pain,  while  the  air  was  full  of  drowning  men's  voices, 
and  too-late  prayers  to  Heaven  ? 

There  was  news  of  a  large  vessel  driven  ashore  upon  a  ledge 
down  off  the  eastern  coast,  and  gone  to  pieces. 

Dead  bodies  drifted  ashore  ten  miles  away ;  and  fragments  of 
wreck  found,  with  a  portion  of  a  name. 

" — ajestic.     Selpo — " 

"  No  doubt,  the  ship  Majestic,  Vorse,  master,  of  Selport :  from 
Valparaiso,  June  24.  All  on  board  must  have  perished." 

Say  stayed  with  Grace  that  night. 

And  Grace,  out  of  her  little  prayer-book, — that  had  brought  her, 
in  strange,  long-waited  answer  to  all  her  faith  and  rest  in  it,  this 
one,  short  joy  of  her  life,  that  was  wrenched  away  from  her  again, 
— read  the  petition  for  persons  at  sea,  because  she  could  not  leave 
it  off  as  helpless  words,  even  yet ;  though  she  knew  her  friend 
might  be,  already,  where  there  was  no  more  sea. 

And  then  the  two  lay,  sleepless,  by  each  other's  side,  through 
the  long,  terrible  hours ;  their  hands  clasped  ;  sending  up,  heart 
by  heart,  still  sobs,  and  speechless  prayers  to  Heaven. 

Say  thought  back, — how  the  thoughts  will  go  back  in  moments 
like  these ! — and  remembered  the  tame  habitual  words  that  she 
had  said  for  him,  when  his  ship  was  going  down !  She  had  not 
really  been  afraid  of  the  storm  for  him ;  who  had  come  through 
so  many  storms ;  who  was  in  his  own,  new,  stout,  noble  ship ! 
They  had  been  little  quiet  heart-breaths,  rather;  such  as  go  up 
from  all  loving  souls  to  Him  who  must  care  for  all,  continually  ; 
else,  though  there  be  no  cloud  in  the  sky,  we  should  all  also  perish. 

"  Why  did  she  say  such  summer-words,  and  so  few  of  them  ? 
Why  did  she  not  feel  the  threat  of  every  wave,  and  battle,  in  spirit, 
before  God,  with  each? 

Was  it  too  late,  even  now  ? 

"  Oh  Thou,  to  Whom  the  Past  is  Present,  take  the  prayer  of 


11  Elected  !  "  341 

agony  I  would  have  prayed,  if  I  had  known,  and  somehow,  in  Thy 
mysterious  Power,  send  answer  !  " 

He  had  gone  without  her  love !  Never  knowing — she  did  not 
know,  herself,  when  she  gave  him  that  hard  answer  that  she 
thought  true — what  he  was,  what  he  had  been,  what  he  must  for- 
ever be,  to  her  !  If  she  could  but  call  that  moment  back ! 

The  hours  were  not  hours.  They  were  the  epitome  of  years. 
They  were  nameless  periods  of  intensest  life. 

People  expect  to  find  friends,  days  after,  in  the  first  shock  of 
sudden,  terrible  grief.  They  have  gone  by  it,  ages'  length. 

At  first,  the  time  went  by  in  tears  and  prayers  ;  then,  at  the  day- 
break, came  a  deep,  strange  joy. 

"  If  it  were  so  !     Even  if  it  were  !  " 

The  barrier  was  down  between  them,  and  forever. 

The  something,  that  would  not  let  them  fully  understand. 

That  inner,  real  nature  of  his — it  had  gone  up.  The  hardness, 
and  the  mistake,  and  the  doubting — they  were  all  beneath  the  sea. 

Into  that  unseen  World,  where  souls  are — in  the  body,  or  out  of 
the  body — she  felt  forth,  with  hands  of  faith ;  she  felt  him  near. 
He  understood  her  now.  He  had  found  the  Everlasting  Truth. 
In  his  purified,  glorified  manhood,  he  stood  nearer  to  God,  now, 
than  she ! 

Life  had  held  them  sundered :  Death  had  brought  them  soul  to 
soul. 

This  was  the  rapture  of  the  still,  sure  dawn,  after  the  darkness  ; 
the  ecstasy  to  which  grief  climbed,  by  those  steps  that  were  Periods 
of  Pain. 

But  grief  must  fall  back  into  itself  ;  and  climb  again  ;  and  again. 

They  rose  up  together,  and  shut  out  the  daylight ;  the  bright, 
riotous  September  sun,  that  came  back,  as  if  his  shrouding  had 
cost  them  nothing ! 

The  life  of  the  great  city  woke ;  wheels  crashed  by ;  merchan- 
dise was  carried  up  and  down ;  other  ships  were  at  the  wharves, 
unlading ;  other  sailors  had  come  home ;  it  was  as  if  there  had 
been  no  storm,  and  no  brave  vessel  and  no  loving  hearts  had  been 
borne  under,  and  gone  down. 

In  the  broadening,  busy  day,  they  could  hardly  feel  it  true. 

Night  came  again,  and  night  thoughts,  and  certainties  of  suf- 


342  The  Gayworthys. 

fering.  They  cried,  and  prayed ;  and  slept,  at  length,  from  utter 
weariness. 

In  the  second  morning,  Say  gave  her  friend  long  kisses,  and 
went  home. 

Aunt  Prue  came  down  from  the  country  in  the  afternoon.  Say 
knew  that  it  would  be  so.  She  had  the  paper  always,  only  twelve 
hours  late,  up  there  in  her  hillside  home  ;  and  these  tidings  would 
bring  her ;  down,  at  least  nearer  to  this  terrible  sea,  and  the  news 
of  it. 

The  two  women  met  there  again,  in  the  crowded  station.  They 
grasped  each  other's  hands  and  never  said  a  word. 

Until  Say  led  Aunt  Prue  into  her  own  quiet  room,  and  turned 
with  arms  held  out. 

"  Aunt  Prue  !  you  do  believe  me  now,  and  I  must  comfort  you." 
And  Gershom's  mother  called  her  "  child,"  and  held  her  close. 


The  last  gasps  of  a  southeasterly  storm  down  on  the  Atlantic. 

A  great  vessel  out  of  her  course,  dismasted,  leaking,  drifting, 
broadside  on,  to  a  lee  shore. 

Twelve  men,  clinging  to  the  wreck  ;  eight  washed  away  into  the 
hungry  sea,  with  sails,  and  ropes,  and  spars,  and  boats,  that  had 
gone,  sweep  after  sweep,  crash  after  crash. 

In  the  deck  cabin  lay  the  master,  sorely  hurt ;  the  bones  of  his 
foot  and  ankle  broken  by  a  falling  timber,  as  he  helped  to  cut  away 
the  mainmast  with  his  own  hands. 

Beside  him,  Blackmere,  his  first  officer  and  friend ;  nothing  to 
do  now  but  to  stand  by  loyally,  to  the  last  plank. 

They  heard  the  sound  of  the  great  seas  as  they  shattered  into 
breakers  over  the  nearing  rocks. 

A  heaving,  as  if  the  soul  were  going  out  of  her,  which,  indeed, 
it  was, — a  grinding, — a  shock,  that  flung  them  helpless  across  her 
deck  and  floors, — and  the  vessel  that  had  had  such  glorious  life  in 
her,  lay,  a  dead  thing,  cast  up,  at  half  tide,  on  a  cruel,  outlying 
ledge. 

Fast,  by  her  stern,  between  two  griping  crags  ;  but  she  parted, 
forward,  and  the  cargo  came  out  of  her.  Three  more  men  upon 
the  forecastle  went  down  then. 


"Elected'!"  343 

Nine  souls  were  left  upon  the  fragment  of  her ;  and  the  tide  was 
going  out. 

Night,  and  darkness,  and  shivering  timbers,  that  might  go  with 
any  shock.  But  the  morning  was  coming,  and  the  storm  that  had 
done  its  worst,  was  dying  down  ;  the  wind  was  changing,  and  the 
tide  was  going  out. 

Broad  day  at  last,  and  the  tide  upon  the  turn. 

Before  them,  the  tumultuous  ocean,  seething  after  its  long 
scourging,  and  turning  its  face  this  way,  with  death  in  it.  Behind 
the  ledge,  a  calmer  water  ;  and  more  than  half  a  mile  away,  show- 
ing between  wave-tops,  as  they  lifted  and  lowered,  a  line  of  sandy, 
island  beach. 

Men  might  live  to  get  there.  The  ship  could  never  last  that 
tide  out.  The  sea  would  sweep  clean  over  the  whole  reef. 

Two  men,  strong,  hardy  swimmers,  lashed  themselves  to  planks, 
and  flung  themselves  off,  to  be  borne  back  by  the  fearful  under- 
tow, and  dashed  lifeless  among  hidden  crags. 

High  on  the  topmost  point  the  five  men  left  got  up  a  staff  and 
a  white  signal.  A  boat  might,  by  some  wonderful  chance,  come 
out  to  them.  All  up  and  down  among  those  islands  into  whose 
broad  fringe  that  eastern  coast  was  torn,  were  homes  of  small 
sheep-farmers  and  hardy  fishermen. 

Long  before  noon  the  golden  sun  shone  clear  in  the  blue  heaven. 
And  out  there,  over  the  dark  points  of  rock,  against  the  blue,  two 
brave  'long-shore  men  saw  the  fluttering  gleam  of  white.  A  ves- 
sel gone  aground  in  the  night ;  and  souls  waiting  there  to  perish. 
For  the  tide  was  three  hours  in. 

Help  coming.  A  boat  with  men  and  ropes,  and  poles,  daring 
the  waters,  out  of  which  the  wrath  had  but  half  subsided.  Climb- 
ing, and  pitching, — toiling  against  the  great  incoming  tide.  But 
the  wind  had  come  out  fair  from  off  the  shore,  and  they  had  set 
up  a  pole,  and  spread  a  bit  of  sail. 

Pollock's  Ledge  is  a  great  sea  mountain,  sloping  up  its  gradual 
mass  from  the  ocean-front,  and  running  abruptly  down  into  the 
water  on  the  shore  side  ;  at  one  point,  showing  a  bare  perpendicular 
face  at  ebb.  Near  up  here,  alongside  the  rock,  buried  two  thirds, 
now,  under  the  rising  tide,  knowing  their  one  safe  approach,  the 
fishermen  came  ;  holding  themselves  off,  at  cautious  distance. 


344  The  Gayworthys. 

against  the  strong  force  of  recoiling  waves,  with  their  stout  boat- 
poles  planted  against  the  ledge. 

Three  men  stood  by  their  frail  signal-staff.  Down  from  the 
wreck,  along  the  slippery  crest,  dashed,  even  now,  with  the  advance 
of  the  coming  flood, — where,  through  clefts,  the  water  rolled  already, 
clutching  with  its  wavering,  deadly  embrace,  the  huge,  worn  body 
of  rock  that  twice  daily,  it  drew  down  into  its  sea-grave, — where 
the  curling  breakers  bursting,  nearer,  every  one,  along  the  crags, 
might  grasp  and  carry  them  away  in  the  very  face  of  hope, — strug- 
gled two  more,  bringing  a  berth  mattress  with  them.  For  the 
Captain,  insensible  with  the  long  pain  of  his  broken  bones,  and  the 
harder  pain  of  his  proud,  brave  sailor  heart.  The  boatmen  flung 
their  ropes,  and  the  quick  sailors  caught  them,  and  the  bed  was 
so  swung  over. 

Blackmere,  giant  of  love  and  muscle,  carne,  toilsomely  and 
perilously,  last  of  all;  stooping,  clinging;  hands  and  feet  in  the 
creeping  water  ;  salt  spray  in  his  face ;  bracing  himself  with  every 
forward  movement,  against  a  possible,  threatening  wave-shock ; 
bearing  his  friend,  unconscious,  swathed  in  blankets,  on  his  true, 
chivalrous  shoulders. 

They  fastened  sling  ropes  about  the  Captain's  body ;  they 
watched  their  time  when  the  boat,  lifted  on  the  surge,  swayed 
nearest ;  they  passed  him  safely.  Blackmere's  work  was  done, — • 
almost. 

Then  three  seamen  swung  themselves  after.     Only  three. 

We  can't  take  more  !    You'll  swamp  her  !    We'll  come  back  !  " 

And  the  boatmen  flung  off  the  ropes,  drew  in  their  poles,  set 
their  oars  in  the  rowlocks,  and  turned  their  faces  toward  the  shore. 

But  the  sailors  knew  that  there  would  be  no  time.  The  sea  was 
upon  them.  The  tide  was  more  than  four  hours  in. 

They  would  have  plunged  down  into  the  water,  after  the  boat ; 
those  two  left  standing  there  with  Blackmere. 

"  Hold  back  !  "  cried  the  mate,  grasping  them  each  by  an  arm. 
"  Will  you  lose  eight  lives  instead  of  two  ?  God's  here  as  well  as 
there ! " 

There  was  an  angry,  desperate  blow ;  the  brave  man  held  on ; 
another,  and  he  fell  back  against  the  rock.  There  was  a  plunge 
intn  the  sea,  but  the  boat,  lifted  and  swung  upon  the  tide,  had 


Last,  But  Not  Final.  345 

passed  over  in  that  moment,  from  their  reach ;  English  Ned  had 
saved  his  friend ;  the  boy  who  had  once  saved  him. 

He  was  hurt  by  that  ruffianly  blow,  and  fall ;  there  was  a 
shoulder  crippled.  He  could  not  swim  for  it  now,  were  it  not  even 
a  hopeless  thing  to  try. 

If  he  must  go,  he  would  go  with  the  ship ;  with  what  was  left  of 
her.  He  crept  down  and  up  again,  through  the  clefts  of  crag  and 
the  dashing  water,  as  he  had  come.  He  went  back — the  last  man, 
alone — to  face  his  death.  He  climbed  upon  the  trembling  timbers, 
lying  even  with  the  topmost  rocks,  over  which  the  sea,  returned  to 
find  its  prey,  began  to  break  with  every  burst  that  came  more 
eager  than  the  rest. 

He  held  fast  while  he  could  hold. 

He  had  one  thought,  with  a  long  pang  in  it. 

"  My  little  girl  !  " 

And  then  came  Peace. 

Till  in  the  seeming  pitiless  black  wall  of  water  that  rose  up  at 
last  with  gathered,  towering  bulk  above  and  toward  him,  he  saw, 
as  in  the  last  extreme  souls  only  see,  a  Love  and  Pity  bending  in 
the  Might  that  smote.  A  still,  small  voice  within  the  roar,  spoke 
a  triumphant  word  to  him — "  Elected  !  " 

And  on  the  seaward  sweep  of  that  backward-thundering  wave, 
a  great,  brave,  believing  soul  went  forth  to  God. 

A  strong  thread,  holding  fast  to  many  hearts,  was — broken  ? 

Loosed  from  earth,  and  drifted  out  to  the  Unseen. 

Upon  such  lines  hearts  follow,  and  find  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

LAST,   BUT   NOT   FINAL. 

AUNT  PRUE  had  not  come  down  to  sit  and  grieve,  and  wait  for 
certainty  of  ill  to  come  to  her. 

"  Pollock's  Reef."  "  And  the  news  came  by  telegraph  from 
Landhaven.  I'm  going  to  Landhaven  to-morrow  morning,  and 
from  there,  as  near  to  Pollock's  Reef,  wherever  it  is,  as  I  can  get." 

A  longing  hesitancy  came  into  Say's  face. 


346  The  Gayworthys. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Aunt  Prue,  reading  it.  "  You,  too,  child. 
Your  heart's  there.  Why  should  you  act  a  lie  ?  " 

And  Say  was  glad,  and  not  ashamed,  to  be  read  through,  and 
to  be  made  welcome  so. 

At  Landhaven,  they  got  more  news.  The  blessed  news  of  life, 
at  least.  For  a  little,  only,  perhaps.  There  was  terrible  injury 
and  danger. 

They  thought  that  he  would  die.  Say  looked  for  nothing  else. 
But  if  she  could  only  take  back  that  word  of  hers,  so  false  as  she 
felt  it  now  !  If  she  could  only  give  him  her  love  at  last,  to  go  from 
life  with  !  If  she  could  but  cancel  that  sharpest  agony,  before  the 
tide  of  her  grief  surged  back  upon  her ! 

If  there  were  a  chance  given  her !  What  had  the  two  years 
done  with  that  love  of  his,  and  his  stern,  strong  nature  ? 

Two  days  after  their  first  meeting,  Prudence  Vorse  and  the 
44  child  "  were  together  in  the  little  fishing  village  of  Wyacumsett, 
ten  miles  below  the  place  of  shipwreck ;  where  the  bodies  and  the 
drifting  timbers  had  come  ashore,  and  where  Gershom  Vorse  lay 
with  his  shattered  limb,  and  the  sore  anguish  at  his  heart. 
******* 

Back,  out  of  strange  confusion  and  wild  dreams.  Back,  through 
a  dreamless  void  and  horrible  pause.  Groping  back  into  the  world 
of  life  again  ;  feeling  one  by  one,  after  the  old  fibers  of  mysterious 
association  and  relation,  whereby,  in  delicate  poise,  identity  swung 
— somewhere !  Back  out  of  emptiness ;  the  atoms  of  conscious- 
ness regathered ;  the  soul,  in  short,  come  again  into  its  body. 

44  Say  ! "  It  was  his  first  word.  How  did  he  know  that  she  was 
there  ? 

41  I've  been — a  naked  soul.  I've  been  out — into  Nowhere. 
Thank  God — for  Here,  again  !  " 

He  had  been  under  the  effect  of  ether.  They  had  amputated 
his  left  foot. 

"  How  did  I  know  that  you  were  here  ?  "  He  asked  the  ques- 
tion himself,  now. 

44 1  felt  you  as  I  came  back,  through  the  darkness.  It  was  the 
first  I  knew  that  I  was  coming.  It  seemed  to  bring  me  back 
again.  Back,  to  my  place, — among  created  things." 

He   spoke  dreamily;  words   perhaps,  that  would  have  waited, 


Last,  But  Not  Final.  347 

had  the  restrictions  of  a  full  consciousness  been  upon  him.  But  it 
\vas  the  truth  that  came. 

"  Gershom  ! " 

She  could  only  speak  his  name,  after  all.  She  could  only  put 
her  hand  in  his  and  hold  fast  by  him ;  as  if  so  she  would  hold  him 
to  the  world  and  to  her  love.  The  tone  and  the  touch  said  all.  A 
^rasp  and  a  look  lifted  up  at  her,  in  which  the  soul  flashed  full  to 
iis  presence-chamber,  answered  her.  It  was  right  between  them; 
though  it  should  be  only  at  the  end. 

Clear  recollection,  as  it  came  back,  sent  his  thought  a  moment 
after,  to  the  live  point  of  pain.  A  great  groan  surged  up  from  the 
depths  of  his  being. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  Oh,  Say  ! — Blackmere ! — The  noblest  soul  I  ever 
knew  has  gone  out  of  the  world  !  " 

And  for  days  after  he  scarcely  spoke  again. 

They  kept  him  quiet.  If  they  had  known  the  sort  of  quiet  that 
it  was ! 

He  lay  there  doing  double  battle ;  his  life  fighting  for  itself 
against  bodily  outrage ;  his  love  against  its  loss. 

Secretly  waging  a  deeper,  more  interior  strife  than  either,  that 
none  else  knew;  the  truth  that  had  come  close  to  him  in  an  awful, 
new  experience, — a  something  different  from  all  experience  of 
conscious,  self-governed  life, — measuring  itself  with  old  doubts ; 
resolving  slowly,  old  problems  of  obscurity ;  working  out  a  way 
for  him, — a  strange  and  special  way — toward  the  light. 

He  had  trembled  almost  out  of  life — the  strong  man,  who  had 
never  felt  physical  helplessness,  or  any  brain-bewilderment  before. 

In  that  mysterious  anaesthesia,  he  had  left  sense  and  certainty 
Behind  him,  and  fluttered,  a  naked  soul,  into  the  void.  He  had 
barely,  it  seemed  to  him,  fluttered  back. — What  was  it  ?  He  lay 
here,  and  tried  to  sift,  from  among  fearful  impressions,  what  it  had 
been. 

Days  after,  at  a  moment  when  Say  sat  alone,  by  his  bedside,  he 
spoke  something  of  it  out.  In  words  different  from  any  she  had 
heard  from  him  before ;  words  great  and  full,  with  a  great  pon- 
dering. 

44  Back  again.  Back  to  my  place.  Say,  I  know  something 
about  it  now.  I  know  what  death  may  be.  I  know  what  madness 


348  The  Gayworthys. 

may  be.  I've  let  go  the  little  anchorage  we  call  our  life,  and 
drifted  out  into  the  great  emptiness  that  lies  round  it.  Going  out 
of  one's  self  is  an  awful  thing  !  The  danger  and  the  pain — every- 
thing else  was  nothing  to  that !  I  have  laid  here  and  thought  of 
it,  till  it  seems,  sometimes,  as  if  a  very  little  would  make  me  let 
go  again,  and  drift  away.  What  is  that  we  hold  by  ?  A  few  little 
outside  appearances,  that  hedge  us  in.  Things  round  us,  that  we 
see,  and  hear,  and  touch.  When  we  lose  these,  and  go  off — is 
there  nothing,  any  more  ?  Say  !  I  seemed  to  leave  all  these  ;  they 
jumbled  up  together,  and  fell  away  ;  and  I  went  out — out — where 
there  was  nothing ! 

"  There  was  nothing,  and  there  was  everything.  It  was  not  sea, 
nor  wind,  nor  fire  ;  but  it  was  the  possibility  of  them  all.  The 
world  snapped  like  a  bubble,  and  went  out.  There  was  an  empti- 
ness— a  seething  ;  as  if  awful  forces  might  break  loose,  and  take 
no  law,  perhaps.  As  if  all  things  were  resolved ;  and  what  had 
made  life,  and  safety,  might  make  anything;  any  wild  confusion, 
terror,  pain.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Say  ;  my  words  seem  wild  ;  but  no 
words  could  be  strong  enough,  or  wild  enough,  to  speak  it. 

"  Doesn't  the  Bible  say  something  about  the  '  secret  chambers 
of  the  Most  High '  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  taken  in  there,  Say  ! 

"  I  lie  here,  and  think — of  Blackmere  ;  my  friend — oh,  my  friend  ! 

The  noble,  noble  fellow,  who  gave  his  life  for  me  ! And  I 

wonder  if  souls  go  out  into  this,  when  they  go  wholly  out  of  life  ! " 

" '  Even  in  the  valley  and  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no 
evil,  for  Thou  art  with  me ;  Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff,  they  comfort 
me.'  '  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters  I  will  be  with  thee  ; 
and  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow  thee.'  " 

Say  could  answer  nothing  but  this. 

"  I  cannot  find  it,  Say  !  There  was  nothing  there  !  "  This  was 
all,  for  long,  that  Gershom  answered  back. 

And  other  days,  again,  went  by. 

And  they  had  other  talk.  Gershom,  and  his  mother,  and  Say. 
Of  the  storm,  and  the  wreck,  and  the  saving  of  those  four  men, 
only,  out  of  all  the  great  ship's  company.  Of  what  they  could 
easily  fill  out,  from  the  facts  known,  and  their  own  larger  knowl- 
edge of  the  man,  of  Blackmere's  heroism  and  fate.  Of  his  "  little 
girl,"  to  whom  Say  wrote,  every  day ;  from  whom  came  such 


Last,  But  Not  Final.  349 

sweet,  sad,  submissive  answers ;  who  should  be  their  care,  now ; 
Gershom  wanted  his  mother  to  take  her  home  to  Hilbury ;  there 
was  money  for  her, — all  Blackmere's  savings;  Gershom  almost 
wished  there  had  been  nothing,  that  he  might  provide  for  her; 
that  he  might  have  this,  at  least,  to  do  for  his  friend.  But  they 
would  never  lose  her  out  from  among  themselves ;  they  would  give 
her  love,  and  home,  and  cherishing,  for  his  sake. 

And  through  and  under  it  all, — all  tender,  almost  remorseful 
sorrow,  and  reverent  memory, — through  all  bodily  pain,  and  slow 
convalescence,  and  thoughts  of  himself  and  his  future, — and  even 
the  love  of  his  life,  borne  back  upon  him  so,  and  whispering  an  un- 
syllabled  promise  in  the  midst  of  all, — through  everything,  wrought 
still,  incessantly,  the  deep  spirit-lesson  God,  in  His  own  way,  was 
teaching  Gershom  Vorse. 

He  had  to  sound  the  very  depths.  He  had  to  feel  what  death 
and  the  grave  might  be  ;  what  the  viewless  forces  were,  that  worked 
about  his  puny  life  ;  he  was  given  an  awful,  wordless  revelation  of 
wreck  and  horror  that  were  possible.  For  some  mysterious  in- 
stants, he  had  been  taken  from  out  the  harmonious  working  and 
relation  of  life,  and  thrust, — a  faint  trembling  point  of  conscious- 
ness,— into  the  elemental  waste.  He  had  felt  the  pregnant  void, 
from  which  life  might,  or  might  not,  according  to  some  Unknown 
Will,  be  born  ;  he  had  touched  unfirmamented  space,  where  seethed 
the  unshaped  principles  of  things,  that,  leaping  to  an  equilibrium, 
might  coruscate  in  worlds  ;  that  worlds,  with  one  electric  flash, 
might  crumble  to,  again. 

It  lay  in  his  memory ;  it  came  back  to  him  in  the  nights ;  the 
physical  loss, — the  mutilation, — he  had  suffered,  was  forgotten  in 
this  experience  of  soul  that  had  come  with  it.  He  thought  of  his 
old  talk  with  Say, — of  the  "  strength  of  the  hills  "  ;  of  the  still, 
solid,  earth,  and  the  silent  gripe  that  holds  its  atoms ;  of  all  that  he, 
that  day,  had  talked  of ;  the  fury  and  riot  of  elemental  and  brute 
force,  and  of  human  passions  ;  of  all  the  horrible  clash  of  Life  with 
unheeding  Law ;  and  he  knew  that  nothing  less  than  GOD  was  in 
and  over  it  all. 

That,  he  had  never  really  doubted.  But,  man  ?  And  what  this 
God  would  do  with  him  ? 

He  came  round,  so,  at  last,  to  the  Light. 


3 So  The  Gayworthys. 

As  if  he  had  never  seen  it,  in  all  his  life,  before.  It  was  given, 
now,  a  new  and  special  gift,  to  him. 

One  still,  flushing,  creeping  dawn,  he  lay,  alone  with  his  deep 
thoughts ;  and  it  was  given  to  him. 

Christ! 

It  was  what  He  came  for, — out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Almighty. 
It  was  what  He  laid  His  finger  on  the  tempest  for.  What  He 
touched  disease  and  discord  for,  and  set  them  right.  What  He 
went  down  into  the  grave  for,  where  men  must  go  ;  and  out  of  its 
blank  and  nothingness  came  back ;  in  His  own,  glorious,  unharmed 
individuality. 

It  was  so  He  saved  the  world ! 

It  was  that  His  words  meant,  that  came  thronging  so. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.  Whoso  believeth  in  Me 
shall  never  die." 

"  In  my  Father's  House,  are  many  Mansions." 

"  I  go  to  prepare  a  Place  for  you.  That  where  I  am,  ye  may  be 
also." 

"  Of  all  that  my  Father  hath  given  me,  I  have  lost  none ;  and  I 
will  raise  them  up  at  the  last  day." 

"  Say  !  tell  me  the  words  of  the  Creed,  that  you  used  to  say  on 
Sundays,  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

And  Say  repeated  to  him  the  grand,  Apostolic  confession  of 
faith. 

" / believe"  he  said  solemnly  repeating,  when  she  had  ended 
In  that  full  manly  tone,  that  had  never  been  afraid  to  utter  a  belief. 
"  I  believe  in  God,  the  Father  Almighty ;  and  in  Hts  Son,  Jesus 
Christ,  our  Lord. — Who  was  crucified,  dead,  and  buried.  And  who 
rose  from  the  dead.  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost ;  the  Communion 
of  Saints  ;  the  Forgiveness  of  sins ;  the  Resurrection  from  the  dead  ; 
and  the  Life  Everlasting  ! " 

There  was  a  deep  silence  between  the  two. 

"  Thank  God  ! — Maimed,  I  have  entered  into  life  ! " 

It  was  only  a  whisper ;  with  a  hand  over  the  face,  and  the  face 
turned  toward  the  pillow  ;  but  Say  heard  it. 

Maimed,  heart  and  body ;  yet,  by  divine  paradox,  a  man  made 
whole. 


Last,  But  Not  Final.  351 

What  more  is  there  to  tell  ? 

He  had  come  nearer,  at  last,  to  God.  as  she  had  said, — througb 
his  fiercer  pain,  and  loss,  and  wrestling,  than  even  she  ! 

They  could  not  help  what  they  were  to  each  other ;  it  came  to 
be  as  it  was  meant. 

"  Will  you  take  me  after  all,  Say,  as  I  am  ?  " 

And  she  took  him  as  he  was ;  not  in  his  first,  young  achieve- 
ment, when  she  had  craved  to  be  nearest  to  him ;  when  she  had 
longed  to  say,  "  I  had  the  dream  of  it  with  you,  Gershie ;  I  knew 
that  you  would  do  it ;  it  is  done !  "  Not  in  the  full  pride  of  his 
successful  manhood,  nor  when  she  had  just  proved  herself  to  him, 
and  he  had  owned  her  truth  ;  not  in  any  way,  according  to  any 
hope  or  longing  that  was  past;  in  no  moment  of  triumph  or  of 
surprise,  for  him  or  her  ;  in  no  climax  of  a  common  love  story  ;  but 
in  quiet  acknowledgment  of  the  truth  that  lay  between  them  ;  after 
all,  and  as  he  was ;  under  misfortune  ;  his  life  crippled  in  its 
activity ;  but  his  soul  whole.  Years  gone  by  that  might  have  been 
years  of  a  young  joy  ;  a  fresh,  unthinking  love.  Years  come,  with 
grief  that  was  dearer  than  delight ;  with  memories  as  holy  and  as 
heart-grasping  as  their  hopes. 

There  came  to  be  a  Home,  again,  at  the  Old  Farm  ;  and  the 
wide  house  was  full. 

And  Grace  ?  She  was  there,  with  them  ;  Aunt  Rebecca  and 
she  with  their  sweet,  denied  lives,  were  the  embodied  peace  and 
serenity  of  it. 

"  The  whole,  great  earth  was  warm  and  close  to  me,"  Grace 
Lowder  said  ;  "  because  there  was  this  love  in  it  for  me  ;  and  now, 
all  heaven  is  warm  and  close,  because  the  love  is  there." 

My  story  does  not  end  as  you  would  have  it  ?  It  does  not  end, 
at  all.  We  make  an  end  of  our  tellings  ;  but  the  stories  of  life  go 
on.  You  may  stop  at  a  pain,  or  at  a  pleasure;  it  is  all  the  same. 
The  threads  run  on,  and  out  of  sight. 

I  know  there  has  been  more  of  waiting,  here,  than  of  fulfilment. 
That  not  one  life,  of  all  that  are  interwoven  in  these  pages, 
achieves  a  perfect  earthly  destiny.  That  in  all,  first  or  last,  there 
is  something  missed,  or  failed  of ;  that  each  may  seem,  in  part. 


352  The  Gay  worthy  s. 

defrauded ;  that  the  web  is  not  woven  without  flaw  or  break,  and 
finished  with  a  hard,  sharp  selvage.  Is  any,  in  this  mortal 
weaving  ? 

At  the  best,  there  is  always  more  warp  than  woof.  The  tissue 
falls  from  out  the  loom,  at  last,  fringed  with  the  thrums  of  unful- 
filled, procrastinated  hopes.  The  threads  float  forth  into  the 
infinite. 

Not  yet, — but  surely, — shall  an  hour  come,  when  the  pattern 
shall  be  made  complete ;  when  every  filament  unweft  shall  be 
gathered  from  its  aimlessness  or  its  entanglement,  joined  to  its  own 
appointed  fiber  of  immortal  Life,  and  woven  into  the  one,  great, 
golden  web  of  Joy  ! 

THE  END. 


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